OF  jCALIF.  LIBHABY.  LOS 


BY 

THE   DUCHESS. 


AUTHOR  OF  "  MOLI.Y  BAWN,"  "MARVEL,"  "  HON.  MR.S. 
VEREKER,"  ETC.,  ETC.   - 


NEW  YORK. 

THE  FF.DHRAL  BOOK  COMPANY, 

PUBLISHERS, 


A   LIFE'S    REMORSE 


PROLOGUE. 

CHAPTER  I. 

A  SQTTAWD  street,  a  dense  crowd — swaying,  angry,  eJtefted. 
Ail  eyes  seem  fixed  upon  the  door  of  one  house,  neaf 
which  two  policemen  are  standing,  and  from  which  every 
now  and  then  men,  evidently  in  authority,  emerge.  It  is 
mid  July,  the  I5th,  and  the  glaring  sun,  though  seen  but 
dimly  through  the  smoky  London  sky,  is  sending  down  its 
hot  rays  with  such  force  that  the  air  is  terribly  oppressive. 
Just  here,  in  this  dull  side  street,  the  heat  is  intolerable,  yet 
nobody  seems  inclined  to  move  on.  Men,  women  and 
children  stand  watching  the  house  with  a  morbid  interest, 
talking  loudly,  unceasingly,  and  always  with  an  undergrowl 
of  hopeful  rage  in  their  tones. 

Last  night  a  crime  of  no  ordinary  sort  had  been  COBP» 
mitted  here.  Behind  the  guarded  doors  the  body  of  tha 
victim  is  still  lying.  There  is  nothing  in  the  outside  of  th« 
house  suggestive  of  anything  out  of  the  common ;  it  is  indeed 
as  meagre  as  its  fellows,  as  innocent  of  paint  or  whitewash, 
as  miserably  unacquainted  with  cleansing  of  any  sort,  but 
inside,  as  is  well  known  to  the  watching  crowd,  it  widely 
differs  from  Nos.  7  and  1 1.  This  No.  9  is  indeed  a  gambling 
hell  of  the  distinctly  better  sort,  which  young  men  belonging 
to  the  aristocracy,  and  young  men  desirous  of  belonging  to 
it,  have  seen  fit  to  patronize  occasionally  in  sheer  idleness 
of  spirit,  and  that  vague  longing  to  do  the  thing  forbidden 
that  is  as  the  breath  of  life  to  us,  and  was  born  with  our 
common  mother,  Eve. 

Just  now  a  red  shadow  seems  to  rest  upon  the  house ;  the 
Surging  angry  crowd  see  it  only  through  a  flush  of  crimson 


2130478 


§  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

that  dyes  it  the  colour  of  blood.  The  deep  sunset  Is 
a  helping  hand  to  this  ghastly  fancy,  and  with  wild  gesticu-, 
lation  the  roused  populace  of  this  unsavoury  place  (that  yet 
is  hardly  a  stone's-throw  from  fashionable  quarters)  converse 
together  of  last  night's  fatal  occurrence. 

To  the  mental  vision,  the  form  of  the  young  giri  lying  in 
her  shroud  within  that  house  of  evil  repute,  is  plain.  She 
had  been  a  very  young  girl,  innocent  of  any  connection  with 
the  gambling  part  of  the  concern ;  a  daughter  of  one  of  the 
servants  who  attended  there ;  a  quite  common  girl,  one  of 
the  people.  There  had  been  a  raid  upon  the  house,  a  hint 
had  been  given  to  the  police ;  there  had  been  a  mttee,  a 
rush,  and  she,  who  had  most  unfortunately  come  there  that 
night  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  to  bring  a  message  to  her 
father — a  message,  said  gossip,  that  ever  delights  to  pile  up 
the  agony,  about  a  dying  brother — had  been  shot  in  the 
scuffle.  She  had  been  killed — by  mistake,  said  some,  but 
they  were  cried  down  upon ;  malice  prepense,  said  others, 
and  these  had  room  given  to  them.  She  had  been  shot, 
and  purposely,  said  the  latter  seers,  having  been  suspected 
of  treachery,  and  of  having  sold  "them"  to  the  police. 

By  "them"  were  meant  the  ordinary  habitues  of  the 
place  ;  but  there  had  been  present  last  night  a  large  sprink- 
ling of  men  from  the  more  select  portion  of  society — men 
whose  reputation  stood  high  in  the  social  world,  and  who 
would  have  risked  a  good  deal  to  keep  their  names  out  of 
the  scandal  that  must  ensue  on  their  discovery  in  such  w 
disreputable,  if  gilded  hole. 

Some  had  been  arrested  on  the  spot,  but  the  greater 
number  had,  in  the  confusion  of  the  moment,  escaped. 
Those  captured  were  of  the  baser  metal,  and  to  secure  some 
whose  names  would  ring  through  England  was  now  felt  by 
the  police  authorities  to  be  the  one  thing  worth  living  for. 
That  would  drag  the  affair  into  eminence.  It  would  help 
effectually  to  put  down  this  disgrace  to  civilization  that 
stood  within  their  midst. 

The  desire  to  arrest  had  been  strong  in  the  breast  of  the 
force  at  all  times,  but  when  the  girl  lay  dead,  shot  to  the 
heart  upon  the  ground,  with  cards  and  die*  strewn  thick  as 
leaves  in  Vallambrosa  round  her,  with  the  blood  rushing 
from  her  young  bosom,  and  her  father,  regardless  of  all  con- 
sequences, kneeling  beside  her,  and  calling  aloud  upon  her 
name,  a  downright  passionate  thirst  of  blood  broke  out  in 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  f 

tTie  myrmidons  of  the  law,  and  they  sought  to  lay  hands 
foeavily  on  all  men  with  a  view  to  seeing  justice  done. 

The  girl  was  well  known ;  was  popular.  A  pretty  crea- 
ture, prettier  than  ever  now  as  she  lay  within  her  last 
coverings  with  that  terrible,  beautiful,  ineffable  smile  upon 
her  young  lips.  The  populace,  ever  prone  to  excitement 
of  one  kind  or  another,  had  risen  in  a  body,  desirous  if 
possible  to  avenge  her  murder — certain  at  all  events  to 
make  a  sensation  of  it.  It  is  easy  at  most  times  to  move 
the  people.  They  will  cry  for  the  death  of  a  puppy,  if  told 
in  tones  sufficiently  lachrymose,  and  will  laugh  at  the  death 
of  a  kitten  if  the  narrator  gives  it  to  them  in  any  truly  witty 
vein.  At  this  moment  their  most  savage  instincts  are  awake, 
and  they  wait  upon  the  comings  and  goings  of  the  servants 
of  the  law  as  thotigh  their  own  lives  depend  upon  them. 

Last  night  was  Saturday !  And  here  is  Sunday,  a  day 
well  into  the  evening,  and  as  yet  no  sure  tidings  of  the  real 
perpetrator  of  that  fatal  act  has  been  gained.  The  people 
are  growing  impatient.  They  press  more  and  more  closely 
on  the  door  as  if  drawn  to  the  fatal  spot  by  some  horrible 
fascination. 

The  police  have  been  making  inquiries  right  and  left, 
but  nothing  coming  of  them  the  crowd  is  losing  patience. 
Detectives,  with  a  hurried,  subdued  whisper  to  the  police- 
man guarding  the  door,  push  their  way  through  the  masses 
and  disappear  into  the  by-streets  at  either  side. 

Suddenly,  on  the  heels  of  one  of  these  last,  a  tall  man 
in  official  uniform  steps  into  the  dying  sunlight.  He  is 
instantly  recognized  by  the  onlookers  as  one  of  those  who 
last  night  had  been  most  instrumental  in  arresting  the 
Visitors  at  the  hell.  He  had  had  his  face  cut  open  in  the 
affray,  and  now  stands  blinking  in  the  light,  with  a  huge 
white  plaster  drawn  across  his  right  cheek.  The  people 
watching  him  grow  silent ;  he  is  standing  on  the  top  step 
of  the  flight  that  leads  to  the  hall  door  of  the  ill-omened 
house,  and  is  looking  straight  out  before  him  as  if  lost  ia 
puzzled  thought,  a  heavy  frown  upon  his  brow. 

Suddenly  this  frown  lightens,  and  his  whole  face  spring* 
into  eager  life.  His  eyes  grow  bright,  intense,  and  fasten 
themselves  with  all  the  avidity  of  a  beast  of  prey  upon 
Borne  object  that  stands  baclf  of  the  mass  of  human  beings 
that  are  searching  his  face  as  though  the  desired  knowledge 
for  which  they  wait  lies  in  it  He  makes  a  step  forward* 


4  A  LIFE'S  REMORS& 

"That  man!  Stop  him!"  he  cries  in  a  clear  ringing 
voice,  extending  his  arm  over  the  people  to  a  direction  that 
would  lead  to  the  left.  Two  or  three  people  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  crowd  turn,  and  know  by  a  certain  instinct  that  the 
slight,  well-dressed,  elegant-looking  man  behind  them  is  the 
person  held  up  to  public  scrutiny. 

They  have  barely  time  to  thus  place  their  instincts,  when 
the  man,  who  is  young  and  of  a  very  agile  build,  and  whose 
own  instincts  are  apparently  as  acute  as  theirs,  makes  a 
movement  to  draw  back  from  them.  A  fatal  movement ! 
In  a  second  the  crowd  sways  round — the  attention  of 
everyone  present  is  directed  towards  him — another  moment, 
and  the  policeman's  hand  is  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  dull 
roar,  muffled  as  yet,  but  rich  in  promise  of  sterner  things  to 
come,  sounds  within  his  ears. 

"You  were  here  last  night,"  says  the  man  with  the  gash 
upon  his  face.  "  I  saw  you.  I  remember  your  face  well." 

"  My  good  fellow,  you  are  mistaken.  If  I  had  been  here 
last  night,  do  you  think  I  should  be  here  now  ?  "  says  the 
gentleman  in  a  wonderfully  even  tone,  but  in  his  rather 
forced  smile  there  is  fear. 

M  Most  likely,"  says  the  policeman  unmoved.  "They're 
often  like  that.  They  comes  back  reglar.  Come,  you'd 
better  give  in  ;  I'd  swear  to  you  at  any  moment,  and  we're 
wanting  witnesses  for  this  case." 

"But  I  assure  you,"  begins  the  other,  always  with  that 
calm  manner  but  that  unmanageable  smile,  "  that  you  are 

mistaken.  I  can  prove  an  alibi "  he  looks  sharply  from 

right  to  left.  The  people  are  crowding  round  him ;  with  his 
elbow  he  instinctively  pushes  back  a  swarthy  fellow  who  is 
pressing  even  closer.  A  quick  hunted  look  grows  within 
his  eyes;  escape  seems  impossible,  and  to  be  identified  with 
this  scandalous  affair — to  have  his  name  dragged  in—- 
It seems  inevitable,  however.  With  an  inward  groan  he  is 
about  to  acknowledge  this,  when  a  sudden  well-known  sound, 
as  of  the  rapid  approach  of  many  horses,  causes  a  panic  in 
the  crowd.  At  the  lower  end  of  the  street  a  fire-engine  comes 
into  view ;  the  horses  tear  up  the  street :  the  people  give 
way.  Seeing  in  l^second  his  one  chance  of  escape,  the  tall 
man  dashes  the  policeman  against  the  wall  near  him,  and 
with  a  spring  breaks  through  the  crush  and  darts  down 
a  side  lane. 


A  LITE'S  REMORSft 


CHAPTER  It  ) 

HE  Is  round  the  corner  in  a  moment,  the  yelling  crowd 
after  him.  His  sudden  flight  from  justice  has  removed 
all  doubts  as  to  his  guilt,  and,  smelling  blood,  the  men, 
women,  and  children  pursue  him. 

On,  on,  now  nearing  him,  now  distanced  as  the  prey  puts 
on  a  fresh  courage,  they  follow  him ;  he  is  now  getting  into 
a  better  part  of  the  town,  a  solitary,  half-asleep  looking 
quarter,  where  the  houses  are  more  respectable,  and  shops 
fewer.  He  has  turned  a  corner,  with  the  sickening  certainty 
that  his  breath  is  failing  him,  and  that  the  hooting,  hideous, 
revengeful  pack  behind  are  gaining  on  him. 

For  the  moment  he  is  out  of  sight ;  the  friendly  corner 
has  hidden  him.  The  street  is  utterly  deserted  so  far  as 
he  can  see,  and  as  he  glances  with  feverish  eyes  around 
him  he  becomes  conscious  of  a  hall  door  standing  wide 
open.  Mechanically  he  glances  at  it — 10,  Sandiford  Street. 

It  is  a  last  chance !  Quick  as  lightning  he  springs  inside 
the  door ;  it  is  a  sudden  impulse,  born  of  no  thought,  and 
may  mean  but  the  last  movement  in  the  luckless  game. 

He  is  spent,  however,  and  it  t's  a  chance,  however  poor. 
He  is  up  the  steps,  and  into  this  quiet  house  that  seems  to 
have  opened  out  to  him  arms  of  salvation. 

He  is  only  just  in  time;. the  yells  of  his  pursuers  tell  him, 
as  he  stands  panting  in  the  tiny  hall,  that  they  are  now  in 
the  street  with  him.  Will  they,  or  will  they  not,  pass  the 
door? 

Turning  a  handle  on  his  right,  he  enters  a  small  room, 
tastily  furnished,  and  evidently  the  apartment  of  some 
bookish  person.  It  is  empty.  Once  inside  it,  with  no 
possibility  of  getting  out  again  unseen,  a  sense  of  madden- 
ing despair  falls  upon  him,  and  with  lips  so  tightened  that 
the  teeth  show  between  them,  he  stands  a  human  thing  at 
bay  !  Afterwards,  he  always  told  himself  with  a  shudder- 
ing terror,  yet  a  feeling  of  hope  of  absolution,  that  during 
those  terrible  moments  of  suspense  he  lost  his  brain,  and 
was  hardly  to  be  considered  accountable  for  anything  he 
might  have  done. 

Standing  listening  now  in  the  empty  little  library,  he 
waits  on  events,  with  pale  face  and  brilliant  eyes.  Should 
it  occur  to  one  of  those  whooping  idiots  outside  to  do  as 


t  A  LIFE'S 

he  did,  to  turn  into  the  open  doorway  that  has  given  him 
sanctuary — what  then  ?  All  will  be  at  an  end.  Publicity 
inevitable  1  Guiltless  as  he  is  of  last  night's  mournful 
crime,  he  was  yet  one  of  the  gambling  party,  and  his  name 
will  assuredly  be  made  much  of,  in  the  examination  of  this 
hateful  affair ;  it  will  appear  in  public  print.  His  name  I 
Hitherto  so  immaculate !  His  very  soul  grinds  within 
him! 

As  for  the  girl,  that  poor  child,  he  had  had  nothing  to  do 
with  her  death — he  thanked  God  for  that.  It  was  not  likely 
that  an  English  gentleman  would  go  out  in  the  evening 
armed  with  a  revolver.  Her  death  lay  at  the  door  of — well, 
some  foreigner  very  likely.  But  he  had  been  present ;  he  had 
even  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  see  the  girl  come  into  the 
room,  and  heard  her  scream  as  a  chance  shot  hit  her.  It 
had  been  horrible — it  had  haunted  him — it  had  drawn  him 
back  to  this  place  to-day,  and  this  lesser  sensation,  in  which 
he  is  now  figuring,  seems  a  part,  an  ouUfome,  of  the  whole. 
It  is  but  natural  that  out  of  the  great  storm  other  winds 
should  arise. 

It  is  unlucky,  however,  that  he  should  be  the  victim. 
He  who  has  always  held  himself  so  chin-high  above  Iris 
brethren.  What  devi.  te.vpted  him  to  go  to  that  detestable 
hole  last  night?  The  world,  his  world,  regards  him  as  a 
Brutus,  an  honourable  man  indeed,  and  to  be  cast  down 
from  his  high  estate  wo*ld  be  to  him  a  catastrophe  too 
bitter  to  be  borne.  Death  rather  than  that — anything  I 

Yet  if  these  fools  find  him,  a  most  unenviable  notoriety 
musi  assuredly  be  his — an  even  painful  notoriety,  in  all 
j)0.;:;ibility.  The  populace,  incensed  as  they  are,  would 
think  little  of  tearing  him  in  pieces.  An  infuriated  mob  is 
a  bad  thing  to  face,  and  this  mob  is  ripe  for  anything.  Not 
that  he  shrinks  from  its  vengeance,  however  rough.  Better 
death  than  the  disgraceful  gossip  that  must  ensue  upon 
discovery. 

Discovery  f  The  very  word  opens  out  a  new  era  to  the 
man  who  up  to  this  has  been  free  of  fear  of  any  sort.  A 
man  to  whom  the  breath  of  universal  good  opinion  is  as 
life  itself.  The  man  to  whom  even  saintly  people  have 
given  the  hand  of  fellowship,  and  the  word — which  means 
a  good  deal  more. 

His  gifts  of  charity  have  been  large  and  various — so  large^ 
as  to  call  for  flattering  comment  from  the  press ;  and — to 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

do  him  justice — were  given  in  no  grudging  manner,  and 
tfith  no  poor  desire  to  attract  tht  world's  attention,  but 
given  heartily  and  because  he  honestly  wished  to  give. 
There  was  no  pettiness  about  him — no  vicious  tendency 
of  any  sort — nothing  to  which  one  would  point  an  objecting 
hand — save,  perhaps,  a  slight  savagery  of  disposition,  and 
that  was  so  low-lying  as  to  be  unknown  even  to  the  man 
himself. 

He  draws  a  deep  breath,  and  involuntarily  takes  i  defen- 
sive attitude.  The  cries,  the  running  feet,  are  at  tiie  door 
now ;  they  pass.  The  pack  in  full  cry  is  racing  round  the 
next  corner,  only  a  straggler  or  two  following  in  its  wake  is 
to  be  heard.  The  danger,  whatever  it  was,  is  at  an  end. 

With  his  hand  clutching  one  of  the  velvet  curtains  of 
the  window,  he  glances  cautiously  out,  to  draw  back  again 
presently  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  The  surging  crowd  is 
gone.  The  quiet  street  takes  on  its  usual  sabbatical  calm. 
It  is  over.  His  name — so  dear  to  him — need  not  now  be 
connected  with  this  hideous  a.Tair.  There  is  no  more  to 
fear.  A  heavy  breath  of  self-gratulation  parts  his  lips. 
He  draws  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  and  turning  to  make 
his  way  homewards  finds  himself  lace  to  face  with  another 
mail. 

A  tall  old  man,  bent,  scholarly  in  appearance,  with  keen 
eyes  that  shine  like  stars  in  his  withered  face.  A  book- 
worm evidently;  of  venerable  aspect,  and  of  a  sad  counte- 
nance. A  very  old  man,  and  one  who  had  made  long  ac- 
quaintance wi:h  grief.  His  bright,  strangely  youthful  eyes 
fix  themselves  upon  the  intruder,  as  if  naturally  to  question 
the  reason  of  his  presence  here,  and  having  fixed  themselves 
refuse  to  move,  growing  large  indeed  with  comprehension 
half  awake. 

The  latter,  thus  brought  face  to  face  with  a  fresh  danger, 
collects  himself  ?;:ffkiuitly  to  stay  the  exclamation  that 
had  been  upon  his  lips,  and  turns  a  countenance  ghastly 
indeed,  but  composed,  upon  the  owner  of  t»e  house.  With 
necessity  for  composure  has  come  the  power  to  show  it. 

"I  have  to  beg  your  pardon,  sir/'  says  he,  advancing  a 
step  or  two  towards  the  old  man.  "There  was  a  commo- 
tion in  the  street  outside — some  w-retched  criminal,  I  fancy, 
having  been  detected  in  the  act  of  picking  a  pocket.  The 

crowd  was  pursuing  him,  and  I "  he  pauses  here,  and 

presses  his  hand  to  his  side.  "  My  heart  is  weak.  1  dread 


•  A  LIFE'S 

excitement  of  any  kind.    Finding  your  door  open  T 
tured  to  come  in  and  take  refuge  here,  until,"  smiling,  "the 
Storm  should  be  overpast.    There  is  no  further  danger  of 

•  jostling,  I  think,  so,"  with  a  courteous  bow,  "  I  will  rid  you 
of  an  uninvited  guest." 

He  wakes  another  step  forward,  this  time  towards  the 
door.  But  the  old  man,  making  a  movement  that  checks 
bis  progress,  holds  out  a  threatening  hand. 

"  A  noment,  sir,"  says  he.  "  I  was  myself  one  of  the 
crowd  you  speak  of.  I  saw  the  '  wretched  criminal ' — I  saw 
him  sufficiently  well,"  with  a  piercing  glance,  "  to  know  that 
It  was  you." 

**  Stand  back,"  says  the  younger  man  with  a  sudden 
fierceness.. 

"  I  refuse  to  let  you  stir  until  this  matter  is  investigated," 
cries  the  other  in  shrill  tones.  "  There  shall  be  justice,  sir, 
Justice  I  The  death  of  that  young  girl  shall  not  go  un- 
avenged  * 

**  Stand  back,  I  say,"  repeats  the  younger  man  in  low 
dangerous  tones. 

"Stand  back  you,  sir.  Any  one  connected  with  last 
eight's  infamous  murder  must  be " 

He  stops  here  with  a  thick  gurgle,  for  the  other's  hand  h 
on  his  throat.  With  a  savage  grasp  that  kills  the  cry  that 
would  have  risen,  he  presses  back  the  old  man  till  he  has 
him  on  his  knees,  and  then  upon  his  back,  and  then  with  a 
fierce  passion  he  dashes  the  white  head,  once,  twice,  thrice^ 
frith  horrible  force  against  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  III. 

IT  mi$ht  nave  t>een  the  work  of  half  an  hour,  or  half  a 
minute.  Tne  younger  man,  rising,  scarce  knows  which  it 
Is.  He  looks  stealthily  down  upon  his  work.  Hah !  At 
least  the  old  fool  is  still;  his  tongue  wags  no  more.  It 
will  take  him  time  to  recover  consciousness — precious  time, 
that  will  enable  him,  the  assaulter,  to  escape.  And  what 
is  an  hour's  relief  from  the  worries  of  existence?  Why 
nothing — a  matter  to  be  grateful  for,  no  more.  A  deeper, 
•weeter  sleep,  because  dreamless. 

There  is  no  movement  in  the  shrunken  body.    He  baa 


A  IIFE'S  REMORSB, 


fainted  How  like  a  faint  is  to-a-s-.  When  people  faint 
they  are  always  pale  ;  pale  as——.  Well,  it  was  a  pity  he 
should  have  compelled  him  to  faint,  but  it  was  the  old  man's 
own  fault.  He  would  have  it  —  and  -  .  Great  heaven  ! 
What  horrid  thing  is  that  ?  —  that  dark,  dark,  red  spot, 
coming  from  under  the  nostril  and  trailing  slowly  down— 
Blowly  —  slowly  - 

Stop  it,  some  one!  stop  it!  or  it  will  enter  the  white, 
parted  lips.  Oh  ---  ! 

He  itirns,  and  flies  the  room.  Outside  there  is  still  a 
straggler  or  two  rushing  past,  and  joining  in  with  them  he 
runs  tto.  These  last  are  newcomers  in  the  race,  to  whom 
his  features  are  unfamiliar,  and  he  runs  with  them  in  all 
safety,  being  indeed  accepted  by  them  as  an  ardent  hankerer 
after  justice. 

And  as  he  runs,  he  feels  a  certain  joy  in  the  quick  move- 
ment, the  swift  rushing  through  the  air  I  The  very  wings  of 
Mercury  seem  lent  to  him.  He  seems  to  fly  upon  the  wind. 
So  fast  he  goes  that  he  outstrips  his  companions,  and  carri/d 
away  by  this  mad  new  spirit  that  possesses  him,  is  in  danger 
of  coming  up  with  those  first  enemies  who  would  know  him 
and  decry  him. 

On  a  sudden  he  recollects  that,  pulls  himself  up  abruptly, 
and  taking  advantage  of  n  moment  that  leaves  him  free  of 
suspicion,  darts  down  a  side  street,  and  still  runs,  until  the 
sound  of  his  own  footsteps  without  accompaniment  frightens 
him,  and  brings  him  to  a  standstill  before  comment  has 
been  brought  to  bear  upon  him.  • 

Another  dingily  respectable  street,  apparently  bereft  of 
life.  The  London  Sunday  street  is,  as  a  rule,  dead.  Just 
now  this  absence  of  things  coming  and  going  is  a  relief  to 
the  man.  He  stops  short  and  looks  back  over  his  shoulder. 
Already  the  detestable  idea  of  being  followed  has  become 
part  of  him.  Furtively  he  wipes  his  brow,  and  this  lifting 
of  his  arm  sends  a  sharp  thrill  of  pain  through  his  body. 
He  pauses,  looks  mechanically  upon  the  arm  that  pains 
him,  and  as  memory  grows  riper  a  sweat  of  terror  replaces 
that  other  damp  he  has  just  brushed  from  his  forehead. 
Jfe  must  have  used  force  with  that  old  man  I 

Such  a  frail  old  man  !  He  remembers  him  now.  Bent, 
feeble,  yet  vigilant.  Vigilant,  smiling  and  full  of  life  ;  hard 
to  kill.  Good  heavens  !  .  to  kill  !  —  yes,  with  that  look  of 
vitality  in  the  quick  eyes  one  could  not  kill  him  unless  one 


It  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

resorted  to  extreme  violence,  unless,  indeed,  one  meant  *« 
be — a — murderer  I 
Oh ! 

But  what  is  the  matter  with  this  arm  ?  a  wrench,  no 
doubt,  in  getting  through  the  crowd — in  that  conflict  with 
the  policeman,  say.  It  certainly  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
old  man.  Oh — damn  that  old  man  !  Why  should  he  have 
come  in  his  way  ! 

He  stands,  a  little  dazed,  yet  sufficiently  alive  to  conse- 
quences to  make  it  clear  to  him  that  he  must  pretend  to  see 
something.  A  sweet  shop,  with  shutters  half  up,  does  his 
purpose,  and  here  he  pauses,  studying  with  unseeing  eyes 
the  dirty  lemon  drops  and  attenuated  sugar-sticks,  and 
generally  consumptive  lollipops  that  adorn  the  melancholy 
windows.  As  he  thus  stands  he  mechanically  rubs  his  hand 
down  the  arm  that  hurts  him,  and  presently  becomes  con- 
scious that  his  fingers  are  moist.  Mechanically,  too,  he 
looks  at  them. 

Oh,  kind,  forgiving  God !  Not  blood !  not  liood.  He 

had  been  unkind,  cowardly,  cruel,  but .  A  horrible 

damp  bedews  his  brow.  This  blood  must  have  come  from 
that  old  man.  But  from  where — his  head  perchance. 
There  had  been  no  sign  of  blood  upon  him,  save  that  small 
sickening  drop  that  fell  from  his  nostril  downwards. 

Well,  what  of  it !  He  pushes  the  stained  hand  out  of  sight, 
and  rubs  it  in  a  shuddering,  secret  fashion  against  his  eoat. 
The  simplest  thing  in  the  world  will  bring  blood  sometimes. 
He  had  not  seriously  hurt  that  old  man — only  stunned  him ; 
it  was  for  self-preservation,  and  doubtless  even  by  this  time 
the  old  fellow  was  on  his  feet  again,  and  organizing  a  search 
party  to  arrest  him.  He  laughs  aloud  as  he  thinks  of  this. 
Oh,  yes,  he  will  forgive  him  that  search  party — that  natural 
desire  for  revenge.  He  will  forgive  him  anything,  if  only 

— — .     A  thick,  painful  sob  chokes  him. 

***** 

It  is  next  morning  the  i6th  of  July.  Through  the  half 
closed  windows  the  sua  is  shining  into  a  library,  an  ex- 
quisitely-appointed room,  very  different  to  that  small, 
scantily-furnished  apartment  where  an  old  man  had  lain 
prone ;  upon  one  of  the  tables  a  daily  paper  is  spread  wide, 
and  bending  over  it  is  a  human  creature,  from  whose  mental 
misery  and  despair  let  us  all  pray  to  be  delivered. 

One  paragraph  has  riveted  his  attention.    As  he  read* 


A  LIFE'S  BEMOBSE.  It 

te-reads  it,  his  every  hope  in  life  lies  dead — skin,  as 
surely  as  that  old  man  was. 

"  Terrible  Tragedy  ! "  The  tetters  dance  before  his  eyes, 
then  grow  into  a  sullen  red  colour,  then  fade,  then  change 
back  again  to  a  large  and  vivid  black.  There  is  no  escaping 
them. 

Yet,  suggestive  as  they  are  of  cruel  harm  done  to  some 
man  or  woman,  they  would  have  had  no  weight  with  the 
man  now  staring  at  them  with  dull,  hopeless  eyes,  but  for 
certain  other  words  lying  below  them.  These  last,  indeed, 
had  been  the  first  to  catch  his  eye.  A  sleepless  night,  an 
unacknowledged  dread,  had  driven  him  downstairs  early — 
had  compelled  him,  though  already  he  feared  comment,  to 
demand  the  morning  papers  before  the  hour  usual  for  the 
butler  to  deliver  them.  And  when  they  were  once  within 
his  hands,  as  they  are  here  now,  tearing  open  the  Times, 
he  scanned  its  columns  with  an  awful  tightening  at  his  heart 
— "10,  Sandiford  Street." 

Now  that  he  really  knows,  he  feels  as  if  he  had  known 
it  for  a  long,  long  time.  A  century  it  might  be.  Could  it 
be  only  yesterday  ? 

"  Oh,  merciful  Lord  !  to  Whom  life  belongs,  Who  can  give 
and  take  it — must  this  thing  be !  Oh,  that  a  miracle 
might  take  place  1  Create  one,  Lord  ;  and  let  that  old  man 
arise  and  walk  the  earth,  as  he  walked  it  only  a  few  short 
hours  ago." 

This  man,  his  slayer,  praying  now  as  he  had  never  prayed 
before,  stops  short  here,  and  flings  up  his  arms  heavenwards, 
as  if  sudden  conviction  of  the  futility  of  it  all  has  struck 
with  the  sharpness  of  a  keen  strong  blade  into  his  heart. 

It  is  too  late.  The  voice  of  Heaven  has  spoken  j  there 
is  no  appeal.  Henceforth  he  is  accursed. 

Again,  as  though  compelled  to  it,  he  reads  the  fatal  words 
beneath  him,  though  were  he  to  live  a  thousand  years  he 
could  not  forget  them,  so  burned  into  his  brain  they  are. 
"This  last  tragedy  took  place  very  close  to  the  scene  of  the 
shocking  murder  on  Saturday  night,  at  that  famous,  or 
rather  infamous,  gambling  hell  in Street." 

He  beats  his  hand  fiercely  on  the  paper  here,  and  his 
horrified  eyes  grow  bright  with  a  sort  of  rage,  that  cries 
aloud  upon  his  folly.  In  seeking  to  escape  the  world's 
censure  on  a  minor  fault,  he  had  iallen  into  an  abyss 
from  which  no  man  can  pluck  him. 


I*  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE, 

"An  old  gentleman,  a  Mr.  Darling,  quiet,  respectable^ 
and  much  thought  of  by  his  neighbours — so  thoroughly 
inoffensive  in  all  his  ways  that  a  motive  for  the  murder 
is  impossible  to  find.  The  case  is  rendered  even  moid 
difficult  by  the  fact  that  a  desire  to  rob  had  evidently 
nothing  to  do  with  it — the  murdered  man's  watch,  chain 
and  seals  being  found  upon  his  body,  and  some  loose  coins 
in  his  pockets.  It  appears  the  servant  was  out,  and  had 
left  the  hall  door  wide  open  whilst  she  went  on  her  errand. 
The  murderer  must  have  entered  by  it,  and  finding  the 
old  man  alone  perpetrated  his  dastardly  crime.  It  is 
remarkable  that  two  such  fearful  assassinations  should  have 
been  committed  within  a  few  hours  of  each  other,  and 
points  to  the  clear  idea  that  one  crime  suggests  another, 
and  that  the  thirst  for  blood,  like  a  disease,  is  catching. 
The  police  have  made  every  inquiry,  but  as  yet  there  is  no 
clue  to  the  murderer." 

"  No  clue  to  the  murderer  ! "  Through  all  his  despair  his 
eyes  cling  to  those  last  words.  It  is  characteristic  of  the 
man  that,  in  spite  of  the  real  agony  he  is  enduring,  no 
thought  of  voluntarily  surrendering  himself  to  justice  finds 
room.  That  dread  of  public  opinion — that  shrinking  from 
public  censure — that  has  been  part  of  his  life  ever  since  he 
was  cognizant  of  anything,  is  strong  as  ever  within  him  now, 
and  in  the  very  centre  of  his  discomfort  he  finds  comfort 
in  the  thought  that  no  possible  opening  for  discovery  lies 
anywhere.  He  had  gone  in  and  out  of  that  house  unob- 
served. His  conscience  alone  had  accompanied  him  as  he 
entered  and  left  it — a  most  sorry  companion  too,  and  one 
not  to  be  silenced.  Yet  he  is  safe.  In  the  very  depth  oi 
bis  remorse  and  misery  he  sees  that. 


sao  os 


A  LITE'S  REMORSE. , 


CHAPTER  t 

*DBAREST  MARIAN, 

"  You  know  I  hate  writing  letters  unless  T  have 
something  to  put  in  them,  but  now  I  have  something,  so 
I  sit  down  to  scribble  to  you.  The  fact  is,  I  must  tell 
it  to  somebody  or  die.  Such  an  adventure  !  When  one 
thinks  of  the  beautiful  monotony  in  which  we  always  live, 
one  must  acknowledge  that  anything  so  out  of  the  common 
as  befell  us  yesterday  is  to  be  regarded  as  a  pure  godsend. 
Well,  introductions  over,  facts  lie  before  you.  You  know 
of  course  that  big  house  on  the  top  of  Maiden  Hill  that  has 
been  untenanted  for  so  long,  don't  you  ? — and  that  of  late 
the  owner  of  it  has  threatened  to  put  in  an  appearance 
and  destroy  the  pleasure  of  a  great  many  of  us  who  loved 
to  roam  his  woods  at  will  ?  Well,  he  has  come,  and  the  way 
we  found  it  put  was — murderous  1 

11  Still  believing  the  pretty  woods  ownerless,  the  colonel 
and  I  set  out  for  our  usual  midday  walk  through  them, 
the  dear  old  man  declaring  he  would  like  to  take  a  last  bit 
of  good  out  of  them.  You  will  understand  that  with  the 
advent  of  a  master  at  The  Grange  our  wanderings  through 
the  woods  would  be  at  an  end.  That  would  be  inevitable. 

"  Pushing  my  arm  through  his,  therefore,  I  went  afield, 
thinking  of  nothing  more  out  of  the  everyday  run  of  things 
than  that  perhaps  we  might  meet  an  early  dog-rose,  or  a 
late  primrose,  or  a  rabbit,  or 

"  I  pause  here  to  make  the  rabbit  famous,  because  he  did 
come,  and  in  coming  nearly  blew  us  into  bits.  Bad  little, 
good  little  rabbit !  He  didn't  kill  us,  you  see,  and  he  has 
given  us  what  would  seem  a  very  interesting  acquaintance. 

"  Well,  here  is  the  rabbit  rushing  out  of  the  copse  on  our 
left,  and — piff — bang — off  goes  something,  and  here  now  is 
the  poor  bunny  lying  dead  at  our  feet.  Could  tragedy 
farther  go  ? 

"  It  could,  I  can  tell  you,  for  if  that  shot  that  slew  him  had 
been  just  a  trifle  more  to  the  right  I  don't  think  I  should  have 
been  able  to  scrawl  this  letter  to  you  now.  You  see  I  was 
walking  just  a  little  in  advance  of  the  colonel,  and  it  would 
have  caught  we.  It  was  a  chance  !  Right  across  our  noses 
went  the  shot  You  know  the  colonel's  way  when  angry ; 


I4  A  IJFE'S  REMORSE. 

he  was  fairly  started  now.   He  picked  up  the  rabbit  without 
a  glance  to  left  or  right. 

'"We  may  as  well  carry  home  our  baggage/  said  he, 
speaking  as  cool  as  you  please,  to  conceal  the  fright  he  had 
got,  for  it  was  a  shock,  I  can  tell  you ;  and  1  myself  was 
'  all  of  a  thrimble,'  as  old  Betty  would  say. 

"At  this  instant— (quite  the  right  instant,  now,  isn't  it? 
I  always  will  say,  he  couldn't  have  staged  it  better) — a  man 
came  through  the  bushes  into  the  foreground — white  as 
death.  It  wasn't  chalk  ;  it  was  nature.  His  gun  was  in  his 
hand.  Plainly,  the  culprit ! 

" '  Oh  you  are  safe — you  are  not  hurt  ? '  cried  he,  as  though 
the  words  were  shot  out  of  his  mouth  as  sharply  as  that 
last  discharge  out  of  his  gun. 

"  And  here  the  colonel  grew  tremendous. 

" '  Good  heavens,  sir ! '  roared  he ;  '  what  do  you  mean 
by  firing  upon  the  passers-by  ? ' 

"  'You  are  uninjured  ? '  said  the  scapegrace,  in  a  breathless 
way.  It  was  all  the  apology  offered  so  far. 

"  '  No  thanks  to  you,'  roared  the  dear  colonel  once 
again.  '  One  would  think  the  taking  of  human  life  was  a 
mere  pastime  to  you.  Why  you'll  probably  turn  out  a 
murderer,  sir,  if  you  persist  in  your  present  ways.  Call 
that  sport ! ' 

"It  was  really  too  bad  of  the  colonel;  the  poor  man 
turned  a  lively  green  ;  you  could  hardly  imagine  anything 
more  horribly  crushed  than  he  appeared.  Flat  all  through. 
I  felt  dreadfully  sorry  for  him,  because  of  course  he  hadn't 
meant  it.  If  he  had  been  a  real  murderer,  he  could  hardly 
have  looked  more  conscience-stricken — there  came  a  look 
into  his  eyes  that  quite  frightened  me.  I  nudged  the 
colonel,  who  was  beginning  a  second  tirade,  and  at  that 
ungentle  reminder  he  consented  to  draw  breath  a  bit 

" '  I  beg  your  pardon,'  said  the  new-comer — his  voice  was 
quite  a  mumble,  you  never  saw  a  man  so  frightened.  '  I 
can  hardly  hope  for  forgiveness.  When  I  saw  you  the  fraction 

of  a  second  after  my  gun  was  discharged  I  thought ' 

he  paused  here,  and  I  turned  my  glance  more  fully  on  him. 
And  indeed  as  I  looked  I  thought  to  myself  that  in  all 
probability  we  should  have  to  carry  home  not  only  bunny 
but  his  slayer.  I  tugged  at  the  colonel's  arm  to  make  him 
look  as  well,  and  gave  him  to  understand  in  a  very  clever 
Whisper  that  if  he  continued  to  abuse  this  poor  man  an/ 


.uIFE'S  BEMORSB.  t$ 

longer  he  would  be  a  murderer,  but  he  was  too  far  gone  to 
be  led  into  any  reasonable  path. 

"  '  So  you  ought,  sir,  so  you  ought,'  said  he  unrelentingly, 
and  with  terrible  severity,  though  he  certainly  didn't  know 
what  the  stranger  had  meant,  as  the  poor  man  had  not 
finished  his  sentence.  '  Why,  your  confounded  gun  went 
off  within  an  inch  of  my  nose.' 

" '  And  no  mean  target  too ! '  whispered  I  into  his  ear, 
which  set  him  off  at  once.  You  know  the  colonel's  darling 
nose — what  a  Wellingtonian  it  is  ;  and  how  prone  he  is  to 
give  way  to  mirth  at  the  most  untimely  seasons.  He  now 
began  to  snigger. 

" '  I  can'f  explain  how  sorry  I  am,'  said  '  the  man.'  (He 
must  be  put  in  like  this  if  one  is  to  understand  him,  because 
a  thing  without  a  name  is  a  puzzlement  to  the  most  abstruse.) 
1  it  is  no  compensation,  I  know,  but  when  I  had  fired  I 
thought  I  should  have  fainted.' 

"The  colonel,  who  was  still  sniggering  at  my  inane  remark, 
(failing  to  catch  fire  at  this  last  apology,  I  took  courage  ia 
both  hands  (they  are  small,  if  sunburnt,  if  you  will  remem- 
ber), and  glancing  behind  his  back  at  the  culprit  I  gave 
him  a  grimace,  meant  as  encouragement.  Whoever  he  was, 
however  guilty — and  he  certainly  did  look  like  a  poacher 
iin  those  leggings — in  all  conscience  he  had  now  been 
scolded  enough. 

" '  You  needn't  go  on  fainting,'  said  I,  seeing  that  he  was 
still  very  low  down  in  the  world.  '  We  are  all  here — none  of 
us  dead  ;  not  so  much  as  a  hair  of  us  blown  into  space ! ' 

''And  here  I  confess  I  gave  way  to  laughter  of  the  convulsed 
noiseless  sort.  It  wouldn't  have  done  to  rouse  the  colonel 
"  The  man  "  looked  back  at  nm  It  was  as  though  I  had 
given  him  a  reprieve.  He  regarded  me  with  a  gratitude 
that  was  certainly  far  beyond  my  deserts. 

"  The  colonel  by  this  time  having  had  his  snigger  out,  now 
felt  better  towards  man  and  beast 

"  *  Tell  you  what,  sir,'  said  he,  '  you  gave  me  a  shock  that 
is  hard  to  forgive.  My  niece  here,'  indicating  me,  '  would 
have  been  a  loss  impossible  to  replace.' 

"  I  thought  this  very  handsome  of  the  colonel,  but  re- 
frained from  the  expected  confusion.  I  sustained  myself 
as  though  I  really  did  believe  the  sun  would  stand  still  at 
my  demise. 

" '  1  can  well  believe  that,'  said  the  unknown,  with  so  much 


16  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

emphasis  that  T  understood  at  once  that  in  an  ordinary 
tale  it  would  be  acknowledged  that  he  had  fallen  in  love 
with  me.  I  felt  the  plot  thickening.  To  be  the  ideal  of 
an  out-and-out  poacher  is,  I  suppose,  quite  as  much  as  even 
the  modern  maid  can  aspire  to.  I  knew  I  ought  to  be 
grateful,  so  I  tried  to  look  it.  But,  unfortunately,  I  could 
only  look  it  at  the  colonel.  Really,  one  can't  be  ready  all 
in  a  moment  to  look  sweet  things  at  a  poacher. 

"'However,'  went  on  the  colonel  magnanimously,  'I 
can  afford  to  forgive  you,  as  you  won't  be  abte  to  do  it  again. 
The  owner  of  these  woods  is  expected  here  shortly,  and  I 
suppose  he  will  see  that  his— er — people— er — guests  can 
handle  a  gun.' 

"  Evidently  my  uncle  was  uncertain  as  to  whether  the  man 
with  the  gun  was  a  servant  or  a  guest.  As  for  me  I  had 
no  doubt  he  was  a  poacher  j  but  I  thought  if  I  told  the 
colonel  so  he  might  come  to  loggerheads  with  him,  and  a 
real  murder  might  be  perpetrated.  As  the  colonel  spoke 
the  man  looked  down.  I  was  right,  then.  He  was  abashed. 

"  '  /  am  the  owner,'  said  he  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  expect  happened  then  ?  We  didn't 
go  through  the  ground,  anyway.  I  don't  know  what  the 
colonel  did — I  never  shall  know — because  I  burst  into  an 
idiotic  peal  of  laughter  that  ought  to  have  made  the  welkin 
ring  if  it  didn't.  It  was  too  funny.  When  I  recovered, 
uncle  was  looking  a  little  stiff,  but  was  letting  his  hand  be 
grasped  by  the  embryo  murderer,  which  showed  signs  of 
grace  in  both  surely.  When  one  thought  of  all  the  colonel 
had  said,  and  his  allusion  to  the  fact  that  the  owner  of  the 
woods  would  be  sure  to  disjniss  the  owner  of  them,  I  con- 
fess it  seemed  to  me  too  good  to  be  true.  Such  a  little 
comedy !  We  parted  from  him,  I  scarcely  know  how,  and 
returned  to  our  home. 

" '  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  asked  him  to  dinner,'  said  the 
colonel,  hesitating  on  the  last  step. 

" '  Perhaps  you  oughtn't,'  said  I,  with  fine  scorn. 

"  '  But  so  inhospitable,'  muttered  the  colonel. 

" '  We're  not  in  Ireland  now,'  said  I ;  '  so  that  though 
you  have  insulted  a  man,  you  need  not  ask  him  to  dinner.' 
At  this  the  colonel  turned  blue. 

" '  D'ye  think  I  insulted  him  ? f  said  he. 

"  You  as  good  as  told  him  he  was  a  dufier  with  a 
tt  all  events,'  said  L 


A  LIFE'S  EEMOESE.  17 

'"We!!,  so  he  was — so  he  was!'  cried  my  darling 
colonel,  with  so  fresh  and  so  hearty  a  contempt  once  more, 
that  even  though  we  were  now  upon  the  high  road  I  turned 
and  hugged  him. 

"  Well,  that  is  all.  But  it  was  an  adventure,  wasn't  it  ? 
Certainly  our  first  meeting  with  Mr.  Crawford,  the  new 
tnan — the  next-door  neighbour — was  full  of  life. 

"  I  suppose  you  want  to  know  something  of  the  '  deserted 
village  '  (it  is  always  deserted  when  you  go  away).  '  Stands 
Scotland  where  it  did  ?  '  you  would  say.  (Fenton-by-Sea 
wouldn't  scan,  or  I'd  have  put  it  in).  It  does  anyway ; 
there  has  not  been  the  slightest  change  since  you  left  us, 
six  months  ago.  The  usual  visiting  is  kept  up;  no  two 
families  have  fallen  apart,  each  from  each ;  the  internecine 
warfare  between  Lady  Stamer  and  Mrs.  Vaudrey  has  been 
faithfully  kept  up ;  last  week  indeed  it  raged.  When  I  say 
Vhat  the  combatants  came  not  to  blows,  but  to  letters,  you 
will  understand  that  the  affair  was  serious  indeed.  And 
all  about  the  clothing  club,  so  far  as  I  can  gather.  Isn't  iJ 
silly  ?  Mrs.  Vaudrey  came  to  auntie,  and  told  her  all  about 
it ;  such  a  tale !  It  took  two  hours  and  a  half,  and  the 
colonel  swearing  all  the  time  in  the  back  room,  because  the 
early  dim>er  was  on  and  she — Mrs.  Vaudrey — wouldn't  be 
off.  Go'xl  heavens  !  Who  creates  such  women  as  her  9 

'^And  ^et  I'd  rather  have  her  than  that  horrid  Lady 
Stamer. 

"Weil,  she  kept  on  hammering  the  whole  quarrel  into 
poor  auntie's  head,  who  you  know  is  incapable  of  under- 
standing anything  unamiable. 

" '  Lady  Stamer  didn't  know  herself,'  was  one  of  the 
remarks  that  ran  all  through  the  long  recital  of  her  wrongs* 
I  must  tell  you  I  was  present  all  through  the  interview, 
because  I  knew  poor  auntie  would  have  died  if  she  had 
been  left  alone — and  what  a  grief  to  the  colonel  and  all  of 
us! 

" '  Lady  Stamer  was  mistaken  if  she  thought  she  could  ride 
rough  shod  over  the  county ; '  this  was  rn  echo  to  the  first 
start.  '  She,  Lady  Stamer,  might  be  a  baroner's  wife,  but 
SHE  (double  dashed),  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  was  a  baron's  daughter, 
and  entitled  to  an  Hon.  before  her  name  ?  And  so  on,  ad 
nauseam.  Isn't  it  queer  ?  And  yet  you  fcnow  I  can't  help 
sympathizing  with  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  just  because  I  can't  bear 
Lady  Stamer  1  Thafs  queer  too  1 


&  A  LIFE'S  EEMORSK. 

"The  Tatter  is  in  an  awful  mood  just  now,  though 
beloved  son,  Sir  Bertram,  is  at  home.  Perhaps  his  charms! 
cannot  kill  the  ennui  that  always  ensues  on  the  advent  of 
the  unbeloved  one.  Yes — Eaton  Stamer  is  at  home  too. 

"And  I  wish  you  were.     Hurry  back,  like  the  best  of 

girls  that  you  are.     I  miss  you  very  much,  though  indeed  a 

good  part  of  my  time  is  taken  up  training  a  little  new  pony 

that  the  colonel  has  given  to  Jimmy.     How  he  does  love 

that  eldest  boy  of  his  1     How  he  loves  all  the  world  ! 

"  Ever  your  loving 

"  EVELYN 


CHAPTER  IL 

LAST  nig'nt  was  wet,  to-day  is  lovely.  In  the  darkness, 
when  ah  had  siept,  the  rushing  beating  rain  had  descended 
with  eager  joy  upon  the  unresisting  land,  and  deluged  it. 
It  is  still  early  in  the  summer.  We  are  not,  as  yet  at  all 
events,  half  way  through  it';  June  is  still  young — a  very 
babe. 

A  perfect  torrent  of  sunshine  is  falling  on  the  old  house, 
smothered  in  ivy  as  it  is.  The  leaves  glisten  and  sparkle 
and  really  quite  preen  themselves  beneath  its  rays.  It  is 
evident  that  they  like  such  ardent  courting. 

That  it  is  an  old  house,  and  loved,  though  ill-kept  because 
of  want  of  means  to  keep  it  better,  may  be  read  by  all  who 
run.  The  sashes  of  the  many  windows  are  sadly  in  want 
of  painting ;  the  walls  would  be  the  better  of  a  thorough 
washing — wherever  the  ivy,  that  in  kindly  friendship  has 
covered  their  deficiencies,  is  not,  they  show  themselves 
unmistakably  dingy. 

But  the  sunshine  riots  over  all.  It  gilds  the  lovely  and 
the  unlovely  alike.  It  covers  this  English  home  of  this 
Irish  Colonel  D'Arcy  with  as  much  glory  as  it  gives  to  the 
palatial  residence,  lit  le  used,  of  the  Duchess  of  Carminster, 
that  stands  on  a  high  hill  to  the  left  of  Firgrove,  the  name 
by  which  the  modest  mansion  of  the  D'Aroys  goes.  It  had 
been  so  called  when  the  colonel  took  it  and  he  left  it  so, 
though  to  tell  the  truth  there  isn't  a  fir-tree  within  a  mile  of 
it.  There  are  others  as  good,  perhaps,  or  better — beeches 
and  oaks  and  elms,  but  of  even  a  paltry  spruce  it  is  in- 
nocent. 


A  LIFE'S  EEMORSB.  19 

Down  below,  in  the  field  at  the  eastern  end  of  the  house, 
a  scene  is  being  enacted  that  Is  rather  out  of  place  when  one 
thinks  of  the  terrible  heat  of  the  day.  It  is  so  warm  indeed, 
that  people  of  mature  years  creep  into  darkened  rooms,  and 
seek  couches,  and  betake  themselves  to  the  last  novel,  and 
generally  efface  themselves  until  the  hour  comes  when 
afternoon  tea  is  here  and  the  intrusive  sun  is  not. 

But  to  the  very  young,  heat  and  cold  are  alike.  They 
feel  them  but  fail  to  classify  them ;  they  decline  to  abate 
one  moment's  ardour  because  of  them.  And  thus  it  comes 
to  pass  that  Evelyn  D'Arcy,  in  a  gown  of  the  very  oldest, 
and  with  half  her  lovely  hair  unbound  and  with  the  other 
half  coiled  on  the  top  of  her  shapely  head  in  orthodox 
fashion,  is  to  be  seen  pursuing  a  rough  little  pony — youthful 
as  herself,  if  one  arranges  the  different  terms  of  life  honestly 
— round  and  round  a  grass  field  under  the  rays  of  a  tropi- 
cal sun. 

In  this  delightful  occupation  she  is  helped  by  a  boy 
cousin  some  four  years  younger  than  herself.  Jimmy  D'Arcy 
is  indeed  only  thirteen,  but  an  excellent  assistant  for  all 
that.  Excellent  as  he  is,  however,  the  pony  is  one  too 
many  for  him ;  just  as  the  little  lad  has  cleverly  driven  him 
into  a  corner,  with  many  a  shout,  and  much  uplifting  of  the 
arms,  and  threats  and  coaxings  mixed,  the  merry  little  brute 
turns  swiftly  round,  kicks  up  his  unshod  heels,  and  is  off 
to  the  opposite  side  of  the  field  before  you  could  say  Jack 
Robinson. 

"  Oh,  Jimmy,  what  a  fool  you  are !  "  cries  Miss  D'Arcy, 
rushing  up  breathless.  "Why,  there  he  was,  under  your 
very  nose,  and  you  let  him  go.  You'll  never  get  such  an 
opportunity  again.  His  mane  was  in  your  fingers.  Oh  I 
what  a  useless,  useless  creature  is  a  boy  1 " 

"  Well,  I  don't  want  to  be  kicked  if  you  do,"  says  Jimmy 
candidly.  "  Did  you  watch  his  hind  legs — did  you  ever  see 
anything  like  them  ?  Round  and  round  they  went  like  a 
windmill.  I  don't  believe  any  pony  kicks  like  him.  No 
one  could  be  up  to  him.  Now,  Evelyn,"  excitedly,  "here 
he  is  again.  Now,  be  careful — I " 

But  words  are  lost  on  Evelyn.  She  is  once  more  off  in 
wild  pursuit  of  the  refractory  pony.  Away  goes  the  pony, 
its  uncombed  mane  flying  in  the  wind ;  away  goes  she,  her 
pretty  soft  iove-locks,  that  should  lie  decorously  above  her 
forehead,  flying  wildly  too.  This  is  the  only  analogy  be> 


W  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

tween  them,  as  the  pony  is  a  stout  sturdy  little  animal, 
with  a  thick  neck,  a  restless  eye,  and  at  this  present  moment 
a  plain  determination  to  defy  the  world. 

Evelyn  looks  as  if  she  could  defy  the  world  too,  in  right 
of  her  beauty.  She  is  a  little  thing,  slender,  dark-eyed, 
clear-skinned,  with  nut-brown  nair,  and  lips  as  red  as  roses. 
A  beautiful  child — but  as  yet  a  child  only,  although  she  is 
quite  seventeen.  Her  hair  falls  in  light  natural  waves 
above  her  white  brow.  Her  hands  and  feet  are  models ; 
even  the  rough  shoes  that  cover  the  latter  cannot  hide  this 
fact. 

Her  eyes  are  peculiar — very  large,  and  at  times  earnest— 
but  deep  and  restless  and  sometimes  mischievous.  Brilliant 
eyes,  •  that  can  be  dreamy,  angry,  merry,  gentle  as  the 
moment  demands.  There  is  something  about  her  that 
suggests  the  idea  of  perpetual  motion.  An  untamable 
creature  hard  to  catch — as  hard  to  catch  as  the  wild  little 
untrained  thing  she  is  now  pursuing  with  a  foot  as  light  us 
Atalanta's. 

Jimmy  follows,  his  heart  in  his  mouth.  He  is  a  well- 
built  lad  and  a  handsome  too,  as  all  the  D'Arcys  are,  with 
eyes  afire  with  eager  desire  for  conquest,  and  a  mouth  sweet 
and  happy. 

*'  Now,  Evelyn — now  !  "  he  roars,  racing  up,  but  Evely» 
has  seen  her  opportunity  as  well  as  he.  Rushing  in  upon 
the  pony  she  seizes  his  mane,  and  with  an  angry  word  or 
two  to  him — who  knows  her  well — she  reduces  him  to  a 
certain  propriety  of  demeanour.  He  consents,  at  all  events, 
to  stand  still  whilst  meditating  a  fresh  act  of  insubordina- 
tion. 

"  Oh,  you  have  him,"  cried  Jimmy  radiant,  coming  up 
and  helping  to  slip  a  bridle  over  the  captive's  head.  '"  Isn't 
he  a  beauty !  And  to  think  he  is  all  my  own.  Say,  Evelyn, 
isn't  it  good  of  father  to  give  him  to  me  ?  " 

"  You're  in  luck,  certainly,"  says  Evelyn,  who  is  stroking 
the  pony's  nose,  and  whispering  little  loving  words  to  it, 
that  are  received  by  the  pony  with  a  calm  contempt 

"It's  the  best  luck  I  ever  had.  I've  always  so  longed 
for  a  pony,  and  now  I  have  it.  And  father  might  have 
Bold  him,  you  know,  and  got  money  for  him '* 

"  And  money  is  a  rather  unknown  quantity  here." 

"Yes.  That's  it.  Perhaps,"  says  the  boy  with  a  rathei 
Wistful  look,  "I  oughtn't  to  take  him." 


'A  LIFE'S  REMORSE;  tt 

"Oh,  yes,  you  must.  The  colonel  means  you  to  have  him. 
He's  been  arranging  about  it  ever  since  last  January.  It  is 
your  birthday  gift.  It  would  trouble  him  now  if  you  said 
anything." 

"  Well,  I  won't  1 "  plainly  relieved.  "  But  he  is  good,  any* 
way." 

"  The  colonel's  an  angel,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy  with  calm 
conviction.  "There  isn't  any  one  like  him  alive." 

"  Sometimes,"  says  the  boy,  looking  at  her  over  the  pony's 
shoulder.  "  Don't  you  wish  he  was  your  father  ?  " 

Evelyn  laughs. 

"  I  don't  see  what  difference  it  would  make,"  says  she. 
"If  he  were  ten  times  my  father  I  couldn't  love  him  more, 
or  he,  me.  And  besides,  do  you  know,  Jim,"  growing  sud- 
denly grave,  "  I  wouldn't  give  up  the  memory  of  my  real 
»ld  father  for  a  good  deal." 

"  Well,  just  so,"  says  Jimmy  vaguely. 

"  I  wish  we  had  a  saddle,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy  regarding  the 
pony  with  a  careful  eye.  "  I  could  do  without  it,  of  course* 
but  still  a  saddle  is  training." 

"  I'll  run  up  to  the  stables  for  one." 

"  No.  It  is  too  far,  and  he  might  give  me  the  slip  again. 
I'll  try  him  as  he  is.  Here,  hold  his  head ;  keep  your  hand 
on  his  nose — so.  And  I'll  make  a  jump  for  it  when  his  head 
is  turned  the  other  way.  Now,  steady ! " 

In  a  second  she  has  vaulted  on  to  the  pony's  back  and 
with  the  quickness  of  practice  has  the  reins  well  in  hand. 

"  Let  go,"  cries  she  sharply,  and  Jimmy,  relaxing  his  hold 
on  the  reins,  away  flies  the  pony  like  a  mad  thing,  Miss 
D'Arcy  clinging  to  him  like  a  limpet.  Round  and  round 
the  field  they  go,  victory  on  neither  side,  until  at  last  chance 
gives  the  pony  the  upper  hand.  Swerving  against  a  post  in 
the  railings  he  recoils  heavily,  flinging  his  rider  to  the  ground, 

"Great  heaven!  She  is  hurt,"  cries  a  voice  from  the 
other  side  of  the  railings.  The  voice  is  followed  by  a  faqe, 
white  and  disturbed,  that  rising  from  the  drop  into  the 
field  beneath,  where  the  mad  struggle  could  be  seen  from 
afar,  now  becomes  level  with  the  scene  of  action.  Driven 
by  his  anxiety,  he  mounts  the  ha-ha  as  swiftly  as  a  boy. 
He  is  not  so  swift,  however,  that  he  cannot  be  outdone.  A 
younger,  slighter  man,  springing  over  the  wall  upon  his  letfc 
rashes  towards  Evelyn,  and——  „.,.--  — 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  I'M  a!l  right.  What  a  fuss  about  nothing ! "  says  sflc. 
ing  nimbly  to  her  feet,  and  speaking  with  a  rather  petulant 
air.  No  one  likes  to  be  commiserated  on  a  fail  from  ? 
horse,  and  this  being  a  pony  the  sympathy  is  even  more 
objectionable.  "  Why,  what  did  you  think  ?  That  I  was 
dead  ?  " 

"  God  forbid,"  says  the  young  man,  lightly  enough,  yet 
with  something  underneath  that  turns  the  careless  rejoinder 
into  a  thanksgiving. 

By  this  time  the  man  who  had  so  laboriously  overcome 
the  difficulties  of  the  ha-ha,  now  comes  into  view,  and 
resolves  himself  into  Mr.  Crawford. 

"  What !  Two  witnesses  to  my  overthrow,"  cries  the  girl, 
a  hot  flush  mounting  to  her  brow.  "  Oh,  this  is  too  bad. 
But  I  do  assure  you,  Mr.  Crawford,  that  as  a  rule,  few 
horses  can  overcome  me.  By  the  by,"  with  a  rapid  glance 
from  one  man  to  the  other,  "  I  suppose  you  are  as  yet 
strangers  to  each  other.  Let  me  introduce  you.  Mr. 
Crawford — Captain  Stamer  Eaton;  this  is  our  new  neigh- 
bour." 

"  Terribly  new,  I'm  afraid,"  says  Mr.  Crawford  with  his 
slow  smile,  that  moves  as  unwillingly  as  if  it  had  been  out 
of  use  and  unoiled  for  many  a  year.  As  it  stands,  however, 
there  is  a  certain  fascination  in  it,  born  of  its  melancholy. 
Nevertheless  it  fails  to  attract  Eaton  Stamer,  who  acknow- 
ledges the  other's  salute  very  coldly. 

"  There  is  something  appalling  about  being  the  last  new- 
comer," goes  on  Mr.  Crawford,  with  that  unwilling  smile  of 
his,  that  is  now  distinctly  propitiatory.  "  One  hardly  knows 
where  to  tread.  One  knows  nothing ;  and  one  jias  got  to 
find  out  all  about  one's  neighbours  without  any  help."' 

"And  your  neighbours  have  got  to  find  out  all  about 
you,"  says  Captain  Stamer  indifferently. 

There  is  a  second's — just  a  second's — pause,  and  then 

"  True  !  "  says  Crawford  slowly,  with  a  gracious  inclina- 
tion of  his  head,  as  if  in  acknowledgment  of  the  truth  of 
the  other  man's  idle  remark. 

"  Well,  I  expect  we'll  find  it  out  quick  enough,"  says 
Evelyn  gaily.  "  Nothing  escapes  this  country ;  and  it  it 
did  it  would  be  snapped  up  by——** 


A  LIFE'S  EEMORSE.  9], 

She  cuts  herself  off  short  and  colours  vividly,  and  givei 
An  apologetic  glance  to  Stamer. 

"  I  forgive  you,"  says  he  in  a  low  tone  and  with  a  laugh, 
"though  these  allusions  to  my  mother  are  of  course  painful." 

At  this  Miss  D'Arcy  laughs  a  lutie  too,  and  as  Jimmy  has 
now  come  up  to  them,  pony  in  hand,  a  turn  is  given  to  the 
conversation. 

"Take  off  the  bridle,  Jimmy;  we  shan't  want  it  again 
now,"  says  she  with  an  ill-suppressed  sigh  of  disappointment 

"And  a  very  good  thing  too,"  says  Stamer  stoutly,  deaf 
to  her  regret. 

Mr.  Crawford,  however,  is  not  so  case-hardened. 

"  We  are  in  your  way,"  he  says.  "  And  yet,  is  it  safe 
for  you  to  ride  such  an  untrained  little  brute  as  that  ?  " 

"  Why,  a  fall  from  him  wouldn't  hurt  a  kitten,"  says 
Miss  D'Arcy.  "  You  should  see  me  sometimes  when  I've 
got  a  colt  in  hand.  Why " 

"  I  don't  want  to,"  says  Mr.  Crawford  quickly.  So 
quickly,  and  with  such  evident  meaning  in  his  tone,  that 
Eaton  Stamer  turns  a  sharp  eye  on  him.  Had  fear  been 
expressed  in  it,  or  what  ? 

Evelyn  too  has  noticed  the  strangeness  of  the  tone  and 
has  laid  her  own  constructions  on  it.  He  thinks  her  un- 
feminine,  wild,  ungentle.  A  hot  burning  flush  mounts  to 
her  forehead ;  Stamer,  looking  at  her  by  chance,  sees  it. 

"Miss  D'Arcy  rides  beautifully.  She  is  quite  fearless, 
and  can  manage  most  things,"  he  says  in  a  studied  tone. 
"For  myself,  I  like  a  woman  who  can  ride." 

"  Oh  !  Eaton,"  cries  Miss  D'Arcy,  as  if  startled  out  of 
herself  by  this  bold  declaration,  "  why,  only  last  week  you 

told  me "  she  stops  quite  suddenly  here  as  if  puzzled 

by  a  glance  he  has  cast  at  her.  He  laughs,  more  for  Mr. 
Crawford's  edification  than  through  genuine  mirth. 

"  Well,  what  did  I  tell  you  ?  "  asks  he ;  and  then  quietly, 
"  You  have  taken  the  Grange,  I  hear,  Mr.  Crawford  ?  Good 
house,  fine  view.  Best  bit  of  cover  in  the  neighbourhood** 

"  I  think  I  shall  like  the  place,"  says  Crawford  in  his 
slow  way,  that  seems  to  have  been  acquired,  rather  than 
born  with  him.  "  IhougK,"  with  a  glance  at  Miss  D'Arcy, 
who  is  now  walking  very  demurely  beside  them,  "  my 
first  day  here  was  fcirdly  a  propitious  one.  1  very  neajl,y 
shot  Miss  D'Arcy. " 

"What  9"  gays  Stamer, 


•4  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE, 

"  Yes."  In  a  few  words  he  tells  the  story.  «  T  cams  down' 
feere  to-day,  Miss  D'Arcy,  to  apologize  to  you  and  youf 
father  for  my  unpardonable  carelessness." 

"To  my  uncle,"  says  Evelyn,  correcting  him.  "But  it 
was  no  such  great  matter  after  all.  Nothing  happened 
We  had  not  even  the  good  luck  to  get  a  grain.  Then  one 
might  have  posed  indeed  as  killed  and  wounded  1  But  as 
it  was " 

"  I  could  not  sleep  last  night  through  thinking  of  it.  It 
was  such  a  mere  chance.  One  step  more  and— it  might 
have  been  terrible,"  says  Mr.  Crawford  with  feeling. 

"That  word  wight,  applies  to  so  many  things.  Well,  you 
haven't  killed  me,  so  be  happy.  I  shall  never  forget  your 
face,"  says  she,  giving  way  to  Kncheckable  mirth.  "  It  was 
ghastly.  Had  my  corpse  been  lying  in  your  path  you  could 
not  have  looked  more  confounded."  She  turned  her  eyes 
to  his.  "  You  would  make  a  bad  murderer,"  says  she  gaily. 
"  You  would  be  found  out  at  once,  your  face  would  betray 
you." 

His  face  now  at  all  events  is  a  study.  She  has  described 
it  as  being  ghastly  on  their  last  meeting,  when  his  careless 
•hot  had  been  so  nearly  fatal ;  but  its  hue  was  healthy  then 
to  what  it  now  is.  After  a  moment  he  rallies,  his  colour 
creeps  slowly  back  into  his  face,  but  his  smile  is  still  fixed 
and  singularly  unpleasant  as  he  answers  her. 

"  A  good  thing,"  he  says.  "  Better  be  found  out  at  once, 
than  live  a  life  of  secret  horror." 

"  You  speak  with  feeling,"  says  Captain  Stamer  laugh, 
ingly.  "  Had  you  a  friend  who  '  made  away '  with  anybody  ? 
That's  the  correct  phrase,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"Ohi  there's  the  colonel,"  cries  Evelyn  quickly.  A 
figure  on  their  right  can  now  indeed  be  seen,  making  a  vigor- 
ous  but  futile  effort  to  hide  himself  within  the  shrubberies. 
"  Colonel !  Colonel  /  Don't  go  1  We  can  all  see  you ;  and 
you  look  twice  as  lovely  in  that  o!ti  coat  as  in  your  Sunday 
go-to-meeting  one.  Come  back.  Here  is  or.ly  Eaton  and 
Mr.  Crawford." 

The  colonel,  with  a  rather  shame-faced  smile  and  a  coat 
very  considerably  the  worse  for  wear,  but  a  cherished  old 
coat  for  all  that,  and  an  unspeakable  comfort  to  its  owner, 
veers  round  and  advances  on  them. 

He  is  a  tall  man  in  the  prime  of  life  still,  though  he  has 
passed  his  fiftieth  year,  with  a  remarkably  handsome  face 


A  LIFE'S  REMOR8EL  9f 

an<?  a  grand  carriage,  and  in  spite  of  his  shabby  surround- 
ings, "  gentleman  "  written  all  over  hjm.  His  eyes  are  as 
bright  as  if  he  was  only  fifteen,  and  his  mouth  is  the  image 
of  Jimmy's.  It  would  occur  to  the  intelligent  observer  that 
the  colonel  and  Time  will  have  a  tussle  before  the  latter 
gains  the  day.  It  is  certain  that  the  colonel  will  find  a  real 
difficulty  in  growing  old. 

"  Glad  to  see  you — glad  to  see  you,"  says  he,  shaking 
hands  first  with  Crawford  and   afterwards   with   Stamer.j 
"  Warm  day  !     I  thought  I  saw  ladies  in  your  train,  and—' 
er — old  coat,  don't  you  know.     Meant  to  cut  round  by  the 
shrubbery  into  the  house  and  put  on  some  fresh  toggery, 
but  Evelyn  circumvented  me ;  she  generally  does,  ha  ha. 
You'll  excuse  me,  I  hope,"  turning  to  Crawford  ;  "  I  was 
gardening,  putting  down  fresh  row  of  peas — rats  ate  the  last 
row." 

"  I  really  do  think,  colonel,  it  is  disgraceful  in  a  man  of 
your  age  to  be  so  given  over  to  vanity,"  says  his  niece,  tucking 
her  arm  into  his.  "  The  fact  is,  that  you  think  you  look 
beautiful  always,  and  yet  you  must  pretend  that  you  don't. 
So  false  !  I  left  Jimmy  with  the  pony.  I  hope  they  won't 
both  come  to  grief." 

"  Not  they,"  says  the  colonel,  who  is  of  that  happy  sort 
who  never  see  breakers  ahead.  "  Why,  here  he  is.  How's 
*he  pony,  Jim  ?  " 

"A  darling!"  says  Jimmy,  which  is  hardly  an  answer. 
"  Oh  1  dad,  I  do  love  you  for  giving  him  to  me.  Say, 
Eaton,  isn't  he  a  beauty  ?  " 

The  group  has  got  divided  now,  and  the  colonel  with  Me 
Crawford  are  walking  on  in  front. 

"  You  imust  come  in  for  a  bit  and  have  something,"  say* 
the  colonel.  "  It's  an  awful  hot  day.  Mrs.  D'Arcy  will  be 
delighted  to  see  you.  She — ha  ha — she  has  come  to  look 
upon  you  by  this  time  as  Evelyn's  preserver.  As  you 
didn't  shoot  her,  you  see,  you  saved  her  life."  Here  the 
colonel  laughs  again,  a  mellow  laugh  that  does  one's*heart 
good  only  to  hear. 

"  I  shall  be  very  pleased  to  make  Mrs.  D'Arcy's  acquaint 
ance,"  says  Crawford.  "  She  is  very  good  to  take  it  in  that 
way."  He  pauses  a  moment  and  then  goes  on.  "  Your 
niece — is  English  ?  "  he  asks. 

"  Not  she  1  "  says  the  colonel  stoutly,  knocking  the  ask 
off  his  cigar  in  a  rather  offended  sort  of  way.  "  How  e»a!4 


*6  A  LITE'S  REMORSE. 

you  think  that?  Not  at  all,"  more  broadly;  "her  mothef 
was  my  sister,  Irish  to  the  backbone,  and  her  father's 
mother  was  Irish  too.  She  took  from  them  all  the  blood 
she  has.  There  isn't,"  with  triumph,  "an  English  ounce 
in  her." 

"Ah!"  says  Mr.  Crawford,  "yes;  one  should  have 
known,  of  course."  Her  mother,  D'Arcy's  sister.  But 
what  was  the  father's  name  ?  The  father's  mother  had  been 
Iiish  too.  Probably  they  were  cousins  all  through.  The 
Irish  are  fond  of  intermarrying.  Of  course  D'Arcy  was 
her  name — they  called  her  so. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

By  this  time  they  have  reached  the  house,  and  entering  it 
t>y  a  hall-door  that  would  be  very  much  the  better  of  a  coat 
of  paint,  are  shown  by  the  colonel  into  a  large  and  shady 
iroom  upon  their  left. 

It  is  about  as  curious  a  room  as  one  could  imagine,  made 
'lip  of  all  sorts  of  incongruities  so  far  as  the  furniture  is 
concerned,  and  yet  it  is  a  distinctly  pretty  room.  From 
the  girl's  careless  beauty  and  her  open  unconcern  about  her 
dress,  which  is  so  ancient  as  to  be  at  its  last  gasp — from  the 
evident  shabbiness  of  the  colonel,  Crawford,  at  all  events, 
had  been  prepared  for  a  drawing-room  untidy  to  the  last 
degree. 

Yet  this  room  is  charming  in  its  own  moneyless  fashion. 
The  chairs,  if  so  old  as  to  be  almost  worthless,  still  belong 
•to  the  class  that  are  found  only  in  good  houses.  The 
elderly  curtains  are  nicely  draped.  Great  care  has  been 
taken  with  the  arrangement  of  the  few  small  tables.  There 
are  no  antimacassars  and,  above  all  things,  flowers  reign 
everywhere;  there  is  a  very  profusion  of  them,  all  ex- 
quisitely settled  in  their  bowls.  Through  the  lowered 
blinds  a  brilliant  twilight  seems  to  cover  this  strange  old 
room  that  is  a  veritable  surprise  to  Crawford,  seeing  it  foi 
the  first  time. 

"  What  roses ! "  says  he,  bending  over  a  delicate  bunch 
near  him.  "  And  how  well  contrasted.  Your  work  ?  "  to 
Evelyn,  who  is  standing  beside  him  trying  to  make  tidy  her 
shapely  head.  She  has  both  arms  uplifted  in  order  to  do 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  *? 

this  and  continues  the  occupation  whilst  smiling  a  consent 
to  him. 

"Yes,  mine.  I  always  arrange  the  flowers.  But  the 
roses  belong  to  the  colonel.  Roses  love  the  colonel.  He 
has  only  to  look  at  them  and  they  bloom  straightway.  I 
always  say  no  credit  should  be  given  him.  Don't  I, 
colonel  ?  " 

"  I  certainly  shan't  come  to  you  for  a  character,  my  dear, 
when  I  want  one,"  says  the  colonel,  giving  a  refractory  lock 
of  hers  a  pull,  whereon  all  her  work  is  undone,  and  her  pretty 
rippling  hair  falls  once  again  in  a  shower  upon  her  shoulders. 

"  Oh  bother  I  "  says  she  with  a  gay  little  laugh.  Crawford 
might  have  been  the  oldest  friend  in  the  world,  for  all  she 
seems  to  care  about  him.  She  lacks  mauvaise  honte,  indeed, 
to  a  rather  dangerous  degree,  but  there  is  still  something 
new  and  therefore  fascinating  in  her  utter  want  of  self-con- 
sciousness. The  colonel  laughs  too,  and  at  this  moiuvin* 
the  door  opens  and  Mrs.  D'Arcy  comes  in. 

A  small  vivacious  woman,  with  kindly  eyes  and  a  rathei 
inconsequent  manner.  Not  fair  enough  to  be  called  fair, 
and  not  dark  enough  to  be  called  dark.  Nothing  definite. 
\Vith  a  good  word  for  everybody,  and  a  warm  heart,  and  a 
tongue  that  runs  like  a  rippling  stream,  and  a  great  affection 
for  her  husband  and  the  children,  of  whom  Evelyn  is  always 
counted  one.  Her  "  eldest  girl,"  as  she  calls  her,  with  a 
loving  glance  and  smile  at  her  husband's  niece  when  she  is 
introducing  her  to  any  one  new  to  them. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Crawford,  she  is  quite  my  own  daughter.  I 
have  had  her  ever  since  she  was  seven,  and  indeed  a  bless- 
ing she  has  been  to  me.  And  how  do  you  like  the  Grange  ? 
Always  a  little  gloomy  it  has  seemed  to  me,  but  certainly 
very  handsome,  and  Evelyn  and  the  colonel  think  the  woods 
perfection.  Well,  so  do  I.  But  I  don't  walk  much,  you  see; 
I  haven't  time ;  there  are  so  many  children,  and  children 
mean  trouble." 

"  I  have  seen  one — two  of  yours,"  says  Crawford,  with  a 
kindly  remembrance  of  her  allusion  to  Evelyn  as  a  child 
also.  "  Master  Jimmy.  A  handsome  boy." 

"  Yes,  isn't  he  ?  "  a  faint  flush  rising  to  her  face.  "Just 
like  the  colonel.  Same  mouth  and  eyes.  The  others,  I'm 
sorry  to  say,  take  after  me.  No — no — not  a  word  of  that 
sort.  I'm  past  believing  in  compliments,  and  we  all  caa 
see  that  to  be  like  the  colonel  would  be  an  advantage,, 


a  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

Well,  and  so  you  fike  Fenton-by-Sea  ?  A  pretty  little  village 
isn't  it  ?  but  so  much  want  always  amongst  the  fishermen. 
Mr.  Vaudrey,  our  rector,  is  always  lamenting  about  it.  But 
Jeremiah  himself  could  hardly  be  of  any  use  to  them  some- 
times, when  the  season  is  bad." 

"  Yes,  I've  heard.  It  is  terrible.  Such  want,  such  losses 
as  there  must  be.  I,"  hurriedly,  "  hope  to  see  Mr.  Vaudrey 
soon,  and  get  him  to  let  me  help  him  with  those  poor  fisher 
folk  of  his,  on  whom  I'm  told  his  heart  is  set." 

"  Ah,  he  will  love  you  if  you  will  help  him  there.  And  it 
will  be  good  of  you,"  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy  simply,  her  eyes 
brightening.  "The  colonel  does  what  he  can,  but  then  there 
is  no  money ! "  with  a  little  expressive  wave  of  the  small  brown 
hands.  "  One  always  feels  as  if  fishermen  were  specially  to 
be  cared  for.  Our  Lord  chose  so  many  of  them  to  be  his 
followers.  And  indeed  they  are  brave  fellows  always." 

"To  be  brave  is  to  be  great,"  says  Mr.  Crawford  in  a  low 
tone.  He  is  looking  down,  and  now  he  twines  his  fingers 
round  each  other,  as  if  caught  by  some  unpleasant  recok 
lection. 

"  You  don't  know  Mr.  Vaudrey  yet  ?  " 

"  I  know  nobody,  except  you  and  yours.  I  cannot  fancy 
I  shall  go  farther  without  faring  worse.  But  Mr.  Vaudrey 
will  suit  me.  I  have  heard  him  very  highly  spoken  of  as 
charitable,  humane,  a  good  man.  If  I  can  help  him,  it  will 
be  a  pleasure — a  great  one,  a  sole  one." 

He  stops  as  if  checking  himself;  quite  suddenly,  he  looks 
tired,  worn-out ;  there  is  a  "  giving  up  "  sort  of  expressioa 
about  his  whole  face. 

"  Oh,  if  you  encourage  Mr.  Vaudrey  like  that,  you  will 
have  the  parish  on  your  shoulders,"  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy 
laughing.  "  He  has  no  bowels  of  compassion  for  the  rich, 
he  gives  all  that  to  the  poor.  A  good  man  ?  Yes,  he  is  that. 
The  best  of  men.  You  will  like  him  certainly,  or  rather 
vou  will  respect  him.  Some  people,"  with  an  introspective 
look  as  if  she  is  privately  classifying  the  "  some  people," 
**  sneer  at  him  as  an  enthusiast ;  but  /  don't,  and  tha 
colonel  doesn't." 

Apparently  with  her  the  colonel's  opinion  is  final 

"The  world  wants  enthusiasts,"  says  Mr.  Cra\vfo?d-. 
"  They  are  the  poor  man's  best  friends.  The  common-sews* 
people  think  too  teng.  Whilst  they  study  the  subject  ib* 
poor  man  di«s.  It  it  a  sort  of  '  live,  horse,  till  you  get  graw.' 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  8f 

You  know  the  old  proverb.  All  the  time  the  good 
man  full  of  common  sense  is  straining  his  eyes  through  his 
spectacles  to  read  who  should  and  who  should  not  get  the 
blankets  and  soup  and  coals,  the  poor  man  is  dying  from 
eold  and  hunger  and  misery.  I  speak  warmly,  because," 
with  a  smile,  "  I  fear  jl  am  one  of  the  terrible  common^ 
sense  ones,  myself." 

"  You  speak  kindly  at  least,"  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy,  her  gentl* 
face  brightening. 

"  It  is  all  talk — talk,"  says  he  with  a  quick  frown.  "  If 
I  would  help  the  poor,  it  is  only — that  I  would  help  myself." 

"  But  you  are  not  poor — you  have  nothing  in  common 
with  them,"  says  she  simply,  rather  puzzled,  as  indeed 
she  well  might  be,  by  his  strange  manner.  But  the  drop- 
ping out  of  the  conventional,  fashionable  life  that  has 
been  so  hateful  to  him  all  these  years  into  the  calm  mono» 
tony  of  the  country  and  into  the  friendly  carelessness  of 
this  rather  unorthodox  family,  has  upset  the  usual  reserve 
that  has  grown  to  be  part  of  him. 

"  True,'1  says  he,  recovering  himself.  "  What  I  meant 
was,  that  everything,  even  apparently  good  motives — a 
desire  to  raise  the  condition  of  the  poor  for  example,  as  we 
are  on  the  subject — is  all  nothing  but  pure  selfishness.  Thus 

we  would  work  out  our  own "  he  pauses. 

•"  Salvation,"  finishes  Mrs.  D'Arcy. 

"  Expiation  ! "  returns  he  in  a  low  tone.  He  is  ver/ 
pale.  He  makes  a  movement  as  if  to  throw  back  his  arms 
— to  breathe  afresh.  "  There  is  something  in  this  air  that 
is  enervating,  I  think,"  he  says  with  a  sort  of  laugh,  that  is 
unmirthful.  "And  I  have  bored  you  with  my  platitudes  of 
course.  You  will  tell  me  not  to  come  again." 

"  Oh,  no,"  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy  earnestly,  who  in  truth  has 
taken  a  fancy  to  him — who  is  indeed,  perhaps,  a  little  flat- 
tered in  that  he  has  given  her  so  much  of  his  society. 

"  Well,  I  have  frightened  the  others  at  all  events,"  iayi 
he,  looking  round. 

The  room  is  empty.  / 


CHAPTER  V, 

THE  colonel,  seefng  his  new  guest  so  well  entertafned  by  rih 
wife,  had  given  a  wink  to  Evelyn,  and  with  Starucr 


30  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

slipped  through  the  low  open  window  into  the  straggling 
garden. 

"  Your  aunt's  wonderful — wonderful"  he  says  to  Evelyn, 
when  they  are  safely  out  of  earshot.  "  She  can  tackle  any 
one.  That's  the  sort  of  wife  to  have.  Don't  you  marry, 
Eaton,"  with  his  jolly  loud  laugh,  "until  you  get  some 
one  who  can  do  all  the  talking  for  you.  Save  you  a  world 
of  trouble." 

"  Any  woman  would  do  for  that  purpose,"  says  Captain 
Stamer.  Whereon  Miss  D'Arcy  with  great  reason  turns 
upon  him  and  rends  him. 

"  I  like  that,"  cries  she.  "  One  would  think  you  never 
talked  at  all,  and  that  we  were  educated  magpies  !  Why, 
look  at  you,  colonel !  I  never  knew  such  a  chatterbox  as 
you  are.  All  the  world  has  heard  of  the  man  who  talked 
the  hind  leg  off  an  elephant,  but  only  a  very  few  know  that 
you  are  that  famous  person.  Go  to !  And  as  for  Eaton, 
there  isn't  an  old  fishwoman  between  this  and  Fenton  who 
can  scold  as  well  as  he  can." 

"/scold?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes.  I  am  a  living  witness.  You  scold  m6> 
morning,  noon  and  night." 

"  You  !  Do  you  think  I'd  dare  ?  Colonel,  you  might 
give  a  companion  in  affliction  the  use  of  your  arm.  I  feel 
as  if  I  were  going  to  give  way." 

"  Not  you,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy  with  a  tilt  of  her  lovely 
nose.  "  You  wouldn't  give  way  to  a  saint." 

"  Why  should  I  ?     I'd  hate  a  saint." 

"  At  that  rate,  you  leave  yourself  outside  the  pale  of 
affection,"  says  she.  "For  you'd  certainly  hate  the 
sinner." 

"  Well,  you  are  not  going  to  chide  him  for  that,  are 
you  ?  "  says  the  colonel. 

"  Better  love  a  sinner  than  be  indifferent  to  all  things," 
says  she,  still  scornful. 

"  Tell  you  what,"  says  Stamer  suddenly,  "  Crawford's  a 
sinner." 

"  EhJ"  says  the  colonel,  as  if  startled  by  the  other's 
tone. 

"  Oh  !  it's  all  nonsense,  of  course,"  says  the  younger  raaft 
laughing.  "  I  know  nothing  about  him.  He  may  be  im- 
maculate for  all  I  know.  And  probably  he  is  too.  But  I 
can't  bear  those  fellows  who  keep  their  eyes  upon  the 


1  LIFE'S  KEMORSE.  3! 

grotmd,  and  speak  as  if  every  word  they  said  was  being 
weighed." 

"And  found  wanting,"  says  the  colonel  with  another 
healthy  roar.  "  Did  y'ever  meet  so  dull  a  dog  ?  I  couldn't 
get  on  with  him,  not  I.  Yet  you  saw  Ixrv  Mrs.  D'Arcy 
managed  him.  He  looks  as  if  life  had  gone  ill  with  him — 
as  if  he'd  lost  his  sweetheart  and  his  last  penny ;  and  yet 
for  the  latter,  at  all  events,  he  is  good,  if  accounts  be  true. 
Unsociable  sort  of  a  beggar  he  seemed  to  me,  though  no 
doubt  there's  good  in  him." 

"  I'm  sure  there  is,"  says  Evelyn  quietly.  "I  can't  think 
vhy  you  don't  like  him.  I  suppose  in  one  thing  you  are 
tight.  I'm  sure  he  has  been  crossed  in  love.  He  looks 
iust  like  that — so  melancholy." 

"  Why  aon't  you  say,  so  interesting  ?  "  sajts  Stamer  with 
»  quick  look  at  her. 

"  What !  you  like  him,"  cries  the  colonel.  "  Well,  girls 
are  odd.  Now  I  thought  you'd  have  turned  up  your  nose 
4t  a  worthless  sort  of  fellow  like  that." 

"  He  is  not  worthless,"  says  Evelyn. 

"  No.  He  has  got  twenty  thousand  a  year,"  says  Stamer 
shortly.  "  Got  a  light,  colonel  ?  " 

"  No — I  don't  know — yes,  I  have,"  says  the  colonel, 
bringing  out  JL  solitary  vesuvian  from  some  subterranean 
pocket.  "And,  by  Jove,  talking  of  Crawford  reminds  me 
that  I  ought  to  go  in,  and  get  him  a  B.  and  S." 

"He'll  be  too  pious  to  drink  it,"  $ays  Stamer,  who  is 
evidently  in  a  bad  mood. 

"Tell  him  /recommend  it,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy,  who  is, 
it  must  be  confessed,  tant  soit  pen  coquette,  making  a  little 
mcue  at  her  uncle  over  her  shoulder,  "  and  he  is  sure  to 
forget  all  his  principles." 

"  I'll  tell  him,"  says  the  colonel  airily,  as  he  moves  to- 
wards the  house,  leaving  the  other  two  alone. 

They  have  passed  the  drooping  roses,  now  hastening  to 
their  death,  and  have  come  out  upon  a  narrower  walk, 
where  branches  of  the  strongly  scented  syringa  brush  them 
AS  they  go  by. 

"You  meant  that,"  says  Stamer  with  all  the  air  of  one 
Who  is  defying  her  to  deny  it. 

"  Did  I  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  I  mean  it 


p  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

"  Why  should  you  not  indeed.  Still,  let  me  tell  you,  It 
was  rather  a  conceited  speech  for  any  girl  to  make  about+» 
man  she  had  only  seen  twice." 

"  And  here  is  a  rude  one  to  counterbalance  it." 

"  I  can't  see  that  I've  been  rude,"  stiffly. 

"  Can't  you  ?  "  with  growing  displeasure.  "  Can  you  see 
that  you  have  been  absurd  then  ?  Not  even  that  )  You 
are  dull  to-day." 

«  How  am  I  dull  ?  " 

**  To  imagine  for  a  moment  I  meant  such  words  as  those. 
You  know  perfectly  that  I  only  said  them  because — to- 
well,  because  I  was  stupid  loo,  I  suppose,  in  my  own  way. 
Not,"  with  a  little  flash  from  her  dark  eyes,  "  so  bad  a  way 
as  yours,  however.  Why,  as  I  tell  you,  I  only  saw  him 
twice  in  my  life — yesterday  and  to-day — for  a  few  minutes 
each  time  ! " 

"  It  is  true  for  all  that,"  says  Stamer  in  a  rather  sudden 
fashion. 

«'  What  is  ?  " 

"That  you  could  turn  him  round  your  little  ringer,  if  i$ 
*O  suiced  you." 

"  Nonsense  /  " 

"  He  admires  you  already  so  much  that '* 

"  I  must  really  beg,  Eaton,  that  you  will  not  talk  to  me 
like  this." 

"  He  does  for  all  that,"  says  the  young  man  doggedly. 
"I  could  see  it  in  every  change  of  his  face.  He  could 
speak  to  nobody  bur,  you." 

"  Not  even  to  auntie  ?  "  with  a  short  and  unlovely  laugh. 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,  he  should  be  civil  to  her,  if  he  wishes 
to  see  you  often.  That  was  merely  kissing  the  nurse  for 
the  sake  of  the  child." 

"  Well  I"  says  Miss  D'Arcy,  coming  to  a  standstill,  and 
proceeding  to  examine  her  companion's  face  with  quite  an 
absorbing  interest.  "  You  look  sane,"  says  she ;  "  but  you 
can't  be.  Lunatics  aie  very  deceptive.  Why,  what  can 
be  the  matter  with  you  to-day  ?  There  is  one  thing,  you 
used  not  to  be — vulgar.  Did  you  know  you  could  be  that  ?  " 

"Did  you  know  you  could  lose  your  temper  over  a 
perfect  stranger  ?  " 

"Over  an  old  friend,  rather.  But  if  old  friends  prove 
Unpleasant  why  should  one  put  up  with  them  ?  " 

**  Well,  I'm  not  going  home  yet,  if  that's  what  you  mean," 


A  fiFE's  REMORSE:  33 

«ays  Captain  Stamer.  "  And  I'm  not  going  to  quarrel  with 
you  either  about  a  fellow  like  Crawford." 

"  I  hope  you  won't  quarrel  with  me  about  anybody,"  says 
she  coldly.  "  And  as  to  Mr.  Crawford,  where  would  the 
quarrel  lie?  Suppose,  as  you  insinuate,  that  he  did  see 
imaginary  charms  in  me.  what  is  that  to  you,  or  any  one  ?  " 

"What  is  it  to  you  ?  " 

"  You  refuse  the  question.  The  fact  is  you  detest  this 
perfect  stranger  who  has  dropped  into  our  midst." 

"  I  don't  believe  he  is  by  any  means  a  perfect  stranger." 

"  That  is  .  very  unjust.  You  know  nothing  to  his 
disadvantage." 

"  Or  to  his  advantage  either." 

"  What  on  earth  can  he  laave  done  to  you  ?  "  says  Evelyn, 
with  a  rather  exasperating  insinuation. 

"  To  me  ?  "  haughtily.  "  Nothing  !  I  don't  fancy  him, 
certainly,  but " 

"  It  is  a  paltry  thing  to  dislike  a  man  without  a  reason," 
interrupts  she  promptly. 

"  Well,"  says  Stamer,  "  if  you  must  have  one,  I  don't  like 
his  face,  his  expression,  his  eyes,  his  mouth  ;  there  is  some- 
thing that  might  be  termed  generally, '  repression,'  about  him. 
He  looks  as  if  he  might  go  off  at  any  moment  without  a 
word  of  warning.  He  should  be  labelled  'Dangerous.'" 

" '  Glass  !  This  side  up  with  care,' "  quotes  she  contemp- 
tuously. "  Well,  if  that  is  all." 

"  It  really  is  all,  I'm  afraid,"  with  a  regretful  smile.  It  is 
plain  that  he  would  have  found  pleasure  in  bringing  facts  to 
bear  on  Mr.  Crawford's  implied  unpleasantness  if  he  could, 
and  is  quite  frankly  sorry  that  he  can't.  "  You  must  admit, 
however,  that  his  face  is  ou';  of  the  common." 

"  A  charm,  surely.  In  a  world  where  every  one — who  has 
not  had  the  advantage  of  being  blown  up — has  two  eyes,  a 
nose  and  a  mouth,  there  is  certainly  a  distinction  in  being 
able  to  look  a  little  different  from  one's  fellows." 

"  Not  in  his  case,  however.  He'd  be  more  agreeable  if 
he  were  more  like  his  fellows.  Commoner,  no  doubt,  but 
more  human.  Why,"  with  a  touch  of  irritability — "  why 
can't  he  smile  properly?" 

"  He  does  look  sad,  doesn't  he  ?  "  says  she  eagerly  ;  "  that 
struck  me  too.  Some  grief,  some  hidden  sorrow  is  troubling 
birn.  Perhaps " 

^Oh,  perhaps,  perhaps,"  interrupts  her  companion, 


34  A  LIFiTS  REHOUSE. 

disgraceful  rudeness.  "  If  you  are  going  to  pity  him,  there's 
no  more  to  be  said.  When  a  girl  begins  to  pity  a  man, 
there's  no  stopping  her.  We  all  know  where  pity  leads." 

"  Do  you  know  where  this  path  leads  ?  "  asks  she,  with 
astonishing  sweetness.  But  he  is  not  astonished  by  it.  He 
understands  it. 

"  If  one  were  to  climb  over  that  wall  in  front  of  us,  it 
would  probably  lead  one  home,"  says  he,  as  if  declining 
subterfuge.  "  But  I  hate  climbing.  And,  as  I  was  saying, 
I  think  any  pity  you  may  lay  on  Crawford  will  be  a  dead 
loss.  To  my  coarser  vision  there  is  nothing  sentimental 
about  him.  Nothing,  except " 

"  What?  "sharply. 

"  I  don't  know,"  lamely. 

"  I  wonder  you  aren't  ashamed  of  yourself,"  says  Miss 
D'Arcy,  with  deep  contempt.  "  You  are  trying  as  hard  as 
you  can  to  take  away  that  man's  character,  and  all  for 
what  ?  Through  sheer  idleness.  You  want  to  prejudice 
me  against  him." 

"  I  do,"  gloomily. 

"  But  why,  why  ?  "  impatiently. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  like  the  fellow.  There's  some* 
thing  queer  about  him." 

"  He's  your  Doctor  Fell,"  says  she. 

44  Well,  perhaps  so,"  says  he,  as  if  tired  of  the  argument. 

Here,  indeed,  both  the  combatants,  as  if  tired,  lay  down 
their  arms  for  a  season,  and  silently  proclaim  a  truce.  A 
brittle  one ;  their  tempers  being  still  on  edge,  they  tread 
softly  as  if  afraid  to  venture  beyond  a  certain  limit. 


CHAPTER  VL 

tt  LOVELY  day,"  says  Captain  Stamer,  by  way  of  proving  the 
freshness  of  his  geniality,  with  an  exhaustive  look  around 
him.  Alas !  the  day  refuses  to  support  his  kindly  judg- 
ment on  it.  Demon-like,  it  betrays  him.  The  rain  of  last 
night,  that  this  morning — nay,  that  five  minutes  ago — had 
seemed  to  be  a  thing  so  remote  as  to  be  placed  in  the 
category  of  injuries  over  and  done  with  for  ever,  now  with 
an  angry  rush  flies  up  from  the  sea,  and  threatens  to 
envelope  them  at  any  moment 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  3$ 

"Delicious!"  says  Miss  D'Arcy,  with  a  stern  determina- 
tion to  agree  with  him  on  every  point  in  spite  of  all  obstacles. 
As  she  spea'-s  a  huge  rain-drop  falls  into  her  left  eye. 
"Pah!"  says  she,  digging  the  knuckle  of  her  little  first 
finger  into  the  insulted  member. 

"  It  is  only  a  summer  shower,"  says  Stamer,  glancing 
however  with  keenest  suspicion  upon  the  lowering  heavens 
above.  The  blue  has  disappeared,  the  gilded  clouds  are 
gone;  there  is  nothing  left  but  greys,  and  such  dull  pig- 
ments. 

11  Nothing  more,"  says  she  valiantly,  although  the  drops 
are  pattering  now  so  hard  about  her  feet  that  the  gravel 
seems  to  rise  to  meet  them. 

"  Come  in  here.  Come  quickly  !  "  cries  Stamer  eagerly, 
forgetting  his  role;  and  catching  her  by  the  arm  he  runs  her 
into  a  dilapidated  summer-house  hard  by,  that  seems  fit  to 
harbour  only  beetles,  slugs,  and  such  wild  beasts. 

It  is  a  little  haven,  however,  for  them,  as,  however  bad  it 
is,  it  keeps  out  the  heavy  angry  rain  that  June  sometimes  as 
if  in  malice  sends  down  upon  her  admirers.  Perhaps  she  is 
a  coquette  this  June  of  ours,  that  we  all  love,  and  finds  a 
mad  delight  in  scattering  abroad  and  bringing  to  great  grief 
the  sincerest  of  her  admirers. 

"Poufl  Who'd  have  thought  it?"  says  Evelyn,  with  a 
little  light  laugh,  shaking  the  dewy  drops  from  her  head  and 
hands — her  charming  head  that  is  hatless,  and  crowned 
only  by  its  own  lovely  curls. 

"Who,  indeed.  It  was  an  ideal  day,  two  minutes  ago. 
Are  you  sure  no  rain  is  coming  through  there  ?  No  ?  Come 
closer  to  me.  This  side  seems  the  most  waterproof." 

"I'm  all  right,"  says  Evelyn,  refusing  this  inviting  offer. 

"  I  hear  this  tennis  tournament  is  coming  off  next  week." 

"  Yes,  and  I'm  so  sorry  j  I  had  so  wished  that  Mariafi 
would  be  home  for  it." 

"  Well,  she  will  be.  My  mother  had  a  letter  from  hei 
this  morning,  saying  she  is  to  be  back  on  Friday  next." 

"  No  ?  Really  1 "  turning  an  eager  face  to  his.  "  Are 
you  sure  t  Oh,  I  am  glad  !  And  she  will  play,  of  course, 
Now  I  can  feel  some  pleasure  in  it." 

"  Have  the  players  been  drawn  yet  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  Nor  handicapped  either.  I  think  your  brothel 
is  to  be  one  of  the  handicappers." 

**  Who  has  got  up  this  affair  ?  "  asks  Stamer,  who  has 


jS  A  MFE'S  REMORSE. 

away  with  his  regiment  and  has  only  just  now  returned  on  a 
three  months'  leave. 

"  Mrs.  Vaudrey." 

"  I  wonder  the  rector  stands  such  a  burst  of  frivolity.** 

*'  Mr.  Vaudrey  is  not  so  narrow  as  all  that.  He  may 
devote  his  own  life  to  the  poor,  but  he  does  not  expect 
every  one  else  to  do  the  same.  He  likes  to  see  people 
ig  themselves.  He  says  tennis  is  a  healthful  amuse- 
ment." 

M  Ah !  His  own  girls  are  growing  up,"  says  Stamer. 
"That's  the  way  with  all  of  them.  I  knew  a  parson  once 
who  thought  dancing  one  of  the  cardinal  sins.  He  preached 
steadily  against  it  for  fifteen  years,  yet  the  first  thing-  he 
did  when  his  eldest  girl  was  thirteen  was  to  engage  a  danc- 
ing mistress  for  her.  They  must  marry  off  the  girls,  you  see." 

"  I  daresay,  I  daresay,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy  vaguely,  who 
has  evidently  not  been  listening.  "  Did  you  hear  that  the 
Duchess  of  Carminster  is  to  be  present  at  this  tournament  ?  " 

"  My  dear  girl !     Have  you  not  yet  grasped  the  fact  that 

I  have  been  home  a  week,  and  that  the  whole  place  is  ring- 
ing Wjth  the  news  that  the  duchess  is  coming  at  last  to  stay 
at  the  Castle.     I'm  sick  of  the  very  name  of  the  duchess 
by  this  time." 

"  Well,  I'm  not,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy  briskly.  "  I'm  long- 
ing to  see  her.  Tell  me  what  she  is  like.  One  doesn't  see 
a  duchess  every  day,  let  me  tell  you,  and  I'm  not  above 
wanting  to  see  a  real  live  one  before  I  die." 

"Candid  child!  You'll  be  gratified  then,  for  she's 
about  as  alive  as  they  make  'em.  Honestly,"  says  Captain 
Stamer,  changing  his  tone,  "she's  quite  as  nice  a  woman 
as  ever  you  rnet." 

"  You  know  her,  then  ?  " 

"  In  a  way.  I've  been  staying  with  her  now  and  again 
at  her  place  in  Devonshire.  She's  a  widow,  as,  of  course, 
you  know." 

"I  don't.  I  never  thought  about  he? — until  now  that 
she  is  coming.  I  suppose  she  is  a  very  grand  person — very 
haughty,  I  mean." 

"  She's  not  the  orthodox  duchess  at  all,"  says  Stamer. 

II  You  know  they  are  all  born  old,  very  old.    They  are  never 
young,  but   this  one  is.     They  step  into  life  full-grown, 
V  to  high  white  hair  and  hook  noses  and  a  pince-nez,  and 
&  supercilious  glance  that  freezes  everybody.      And  she 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  jy 

Isn't  as  haughty  as  she  ought  to  be,  she's — if  one  may  ba 
allowed  the  word  where  a  duchess  is  concerned— rather 
larky  I  She  likes  people  who  make  her  laugh,  and  her 
guests  are  generally  of  the  wits  from  the  upper  ten,  gener- 
ously filtered  all  through  by  a  small  stream  of  lesser  folks 
that  hail  from  Bohemia." 

"And  under  which  of  those  heads  do  you  appear?" 

"  Oh,  as  for  me,"  says  the  young  man  frankly,  "  she  only 
asks  me  when  she  has  tableaux  vivants  or  private  theatri- 
cals on.  I'm  of  use  there,  do  you  see?"  There  isn't  a 
spark  of  vanity  about  this  speech. 

"  She's  going  to  be  at  the  tournament,  anyway.  She  has 
promised  Mrs.  Vaudrey.  She — Mrs.  Vaudrey — is  always 
darkly  hinting  at  the  fact  that  the  duchess  was  once  in  love 
with  her  brother,  Lord  Sainton.  I  suppose  we  may  take 
that  with  as  many  grains  of  salt  as  we  like." 

"  Mrs.  Vaudrey's  a  fool,"  says  Stamer  indifferently. 
"  Duchesses  don't  grow  on  every  bush,  d'ye  see,  and  so  one 
makes  a  lot  of  them  when  one  does  find  them.  However, 
if  she  comes  to  the  tournament  it  will  give  it  an  impetus. 
I  wonder  who  you  will  be  drawn  with.  If  you  are  drawn 
with  me,"  with  a  light  laugh,  "  I  pity  the  others." 

"  Now  who  is  making  a  conceited  speech  ?  " 

"  Have  you  been  thinking  about  that  ever  since  ?  Well, 
you  are  a  cross  little  thing." 

"No,  I'm  not.  Not  a  bit  crosser  than  anybody  else. 
It  is  you,  who  have  been  out  of  temper  all  the  morning, 
and  why  ?  If  your  mother  has  been  as  horrid  to  you  as 
she  is  to  everybody  else,"  flushing  hotly,  "  that  is  no  reason 
why  you  should  come  here  $nd  be  uncivil  to  rne." 

w  How  have  I  been  uncivil  ?  " 

"  In  a  thousand  ways.  If  it  isn't  your  mother  then, 
what  is  it  ?  " 

She  has  turned  to  face  him,  her  eyes  angry.  The  truce 
plainly  is  at  an  end.  Her  little  old  cotton  frock  that  clings 
so  lovingly  to  her  young,  beautiful,  svelte  figure,  catching  in 
a  nail  in  the  ancient  summer-house,  he  stoops  to  release  it. 

"  Nothing,"  says  he,  looking  up  at  her,  a  trifle  nervously, 
from  his  half-kneeling  position.  "  Only " 

"  Only  what  ?  "  imperiously. 

"  I  wish  you  would  give  up  training  those  ponies  and 
eolts,"  says  he,  rising  to  his  feet  and  speaking  with  studied 
determination. 


3*  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

"Is  that  it?"  says  she,  drawing'her  breath  rather  quickly. 
"What  a  long  time  you  have  been  coming  to  it.  And 
after  all,  why  should  I  ?  " 

She  has  grown  very  pale,  very  defiant,  and  the  small 
slight  fingers  clasped  together  are  twitching  nervously. 

"  Because  it  is  abominable  work  for  a  child  like  you." 

"  You  think  it  unladylike ;  why  not  say  it  ?  " 
•     "  Well,  I  do  say  it,"  shortly. 

"  I  shan't  give  it  up  for  all  that.  What ! "  blazing  round 
at  him  suddenly.  "Am  I  to  cease  from  helping  the 
colonel,  just  because  you  and  your  mother  think  me  a  hoy- 
d  ?  Yes,  yes,  that's  the  word ;  I've  heard  it  often  enough 
to  remember  it.  I've  been  told  that  that  is  Lady  Stamer's 
usual  name  for  me." 

"  By  whom  ?  " 

"  Never  mind.     Thafs  not  the  point.0 

"  By  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  of  course.  She  would  do  anything 
to  bring  my  mother  into  disfavour.  But  if  she  told  you 
that  1  ever  called  you  a  hoyden  or  anything  else  disrespect- 
ful, she  lied." 

"  It  is  as  bad  to  think  it  as  to  say  it." 

"  I  have  neither  thought  it  nor  said  it." 

"  Oh  !  as  for  that  I "  says  she  with  a  shrug  of  her  supp'.d 
shoulders. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  "  exclaims  he,  flinging  his 
ill-kept  temper  to  the  winds.  "That  you  don't  believe 
me  ?  Speak,  Evelyn  ! " 

"  Now  don't  get  into  a  passion,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy,  with 
the  most  aggravating  pretence  at  soothing  him,  rubbing  him 
down,  and  reducing  him  to  a  proper  state  of  calmness. 

"  Pshaw  !  "  says  he,  turning  away.  The  rain  has  worn 
itself  out,  and  now  once  again  the  heavens  are  blue,  and  ali 
over  the  west. great  fleecy  banks  of  clouds  are  lying.  Cap- 
tain Sfmer  stepping  into  the  brilliant  light  outside  tha 
summv  Louse,  makes  a  step  or  two  along  the  gravel  path 
as  if  \,i  mad  haste  to  be  gone,  and  then  checks  himself. 

"I  n.Ujt  say,"  says  he,  looking  back  at  her  with  an  angrj 
expii.:  Xia,  "you  are  about  the  most  aggravating  person 
I  ever  met  in  my  life.  I  make  a  simple  remark  to  you  in 
the  most  friendly  spirit  about  what  should  be  for  your  good, 
and  if  I  was  your  worst  enemy,  meaning  an  insult  in  every 
syllable,  you  could  not  have  taken  me  more  unpleasantly." 

"  How  like  your  mother  you  are,"  says  she,  glaacing  at 


A  LITE'S  REMORSE.  3§ 

Mm  over  a  very  raised  and  unfriendly  shoulder.  "  That's 
the  way  she  speaks  when  she  has  been  giving  me  one  of 
her  lectures.  You  needn't  give  me  an  additional  dose. 
I  know  her." 

"  You  don't  know  me,  at  all  events,"  with  a  throb  of 
passion. 

"  Quite  well  enough,"  nonchalantly.  "  And  after  all,  it 
comes  to  this,"  cries  she,  "  that  I  won't  give  up  helping  the 
colonel  for  all  the  old  gossips  and  goody-goodies  the  parish 
contains.  You  call  him  my  uncle  ;  I  call  him  not  only  my 
uncle  but  my  father  too.  He  has  given  me  so  much  love 
that  I  never  never  can  repay  him.  He  has  hardly  a  penny, 
as  you  know,  except  what  he  makes  by  his  horses,  and  no 
one  can  train  them  as  I  can."  This  with  conscious  pride. 
"  I  have  2,  hand,  they  tell  me  ;  I  can  give  them  a  mouth. 
He  says  himself  that  he  wouldn't  get  half  he  does  for  the 
young  ones,  but  for  me." 

"He  therefore  sacrifices  you."  He  must  indeed  have 
been  off  his  head  when  he  ventured  this  remark. 

"  How  dare  you  ?  "  cries  she  passionately,  hot  tears  rush- 
ing to  her  eyes.  "  How  dare  you  so  speak  of  the  colonel  ? 

He — he "  she  pauses,  as  if  unable  to  give  voice  to  her 

indignation,  and  tv;o  large  pearly  drops  fall  down  her 
cheeks.  "  You  don't  understand  him ;  you  are  incapable 
of  it/'  she  hurls  at  him  at  length. 

"  I  do — I  do,"  puts  in  the  young  man  contritely,  rather 
frightened  at  the  storm  he  has  raised. 

"  No,  you  don't.  He  would  not  sacrifice  any  one.  He 
is  always  sacrificing  himself.  There  is  nobody  like  him, 
not  one." 

"  He  is  the  best  fellow  I  know,"  says  Stamer.  "  But  there 
is  this.  He  doesn't  see,  perhaps — he  doesn't  grasp  the 
/act  that  a  girl  like  you  should  not  be  made  a — a  stable 
boy ! " 

This  is  terrible.  In  his  anxiety,  his  desire  to  amend 
matters,  he  has  waded  into  the  deepest  depths. 

"  Go  home  I "  says  Miss  D'Arcy,  in  a  low  but  terrible 
tone.  "  Was  that  your  mother's  last  comment  upon  me  ? 
No  ;  not  a  word.  I  won't  listen.  And  indeed  why  should 
you  speak?  you  could  never  excel  that" 

"  Forgive  me,  Evelyn,"  exclaims  he  anxiously,  shocked 
too  late  by  his  own  words.  "  I  could  not  have  spoken  like 
that,  but  that  I  feel  so  much.  We  are  such  old 


4*  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

and  I—it  was  the  thought  that  other  men  might  thintj 
Oddly  of  you,  that  drove  me  to  such  a  rudeness." 

"  What  other  men  ?  "  with  a  curl  of  her  lip. 

J<  That  Crawford,  for  example.     He  saw  you.     He * 

"  Mr.  Crawford  is  a  gentleman,"  interrupts  she  curtly. 
"  He  therefore  knows  a  lady  when  he  sees  one.  I  am  not 
afraid  of  his  verdict." 

"After  that,  I  may  as  well  go  indeed,"  says  Starrier 
deeniy  affronted  ;  and  with  a  slight  bow  to  her  he  disappears 
amongst  the  bushts. 

Miss  D'Arcy,  having  upheld  herself  with  much  vigour 
in  a  most  dignified  position  until  the  last  faint  sound  of 
his  footsteps  has  ceased  upon  the  air,  now  permits  herself 
to  fall  out  of  line,  and  sinking  upon  the  rickety  old  seat  of 
the  summer-house,  that  is  the  home  of  countless  wriggling 
beasts,  gives  herself  up  to  unbounded  wrath. 

He  !  He  to  dictate  to  her,  to  call  her  a  stable-boy !  Why 
atom-boy  wouldn't  have  been  half  as  bad.  He  was  insulting, 
insolent,  hateful  ]  And  if  he  thinks  she  is  going  to  endure 
such  impertinence  as  that,  he — he — well — he  little  knows. 
And  after  all,  what  business  is  it  of  his  if  she  rides  colts  and 
ponies  from  morning  till  night  ?  Who  is  he,  that  he  should 
object  to  her  pursuits  ?  Is  he  her  brother,  or  her  cousin  or 
her — aunt?  The  word  seems  to  drop  in  quite  naturally. 

Miss  D'Arcy  startles  the  earwigs  by  a  sardonic  laugh,  A 
maiden  aunt—an  old  maid,  that's  what  he  ought  to  be  ;  with 
his  perpetual  lectures  and  fauit-fmdings.  Really  it  is  too 
much  of  a  good  thing  that  he  should  give  himself  such  airs 
with  her. 

Say  he  is  an  old  friend.  The  oldest  friend  she  has.  Very 
well  then.  But  even  the  oldest  friend  has  no  right  to  exceed 
certain  limits ;  and  he  has  exceeded  everything.  He  has 
called  her  horrid  names,  and  laid  down  lines  for  her  as 
though  he  were  the  arbiter  of  her  destiny.  And  what  a 
name  to  call  her  !  Certainly  there  are  times  when  Eaton 
gets  past  enduring.  And  does  he  think  she  is  going  to  pass 
over  this  last  crowning  insult  in  silence  ?  Not  likely  ! 

It  will  be  many  a  long  day  before  she  will  speak  to  him 
again. 

Feeling  wonderfully  relieved  on  coming  to  this  violent 
determination  she  springs  to  her  feet  and  makes  her  way 
to  the  house,  still  raging  as  she  goes.  She'll  let  him  see  / 
iSfe'X/ punish  him  I 


A  LIFE'S  KEMORS2, 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THAT  good  old  romp  called  Tennis,  is  always  in  nTqTi  favouf 
fct  Fenton-by-Sea.  Not  a  man,  woman  or  child  there,  inde- 
pendent of  crutches,  or  out  of  the  perambulator,  but  plays 
it  all  day  long,  from  the  middle  of  May,  when  they  catch 
severe  colds  that  last  them  well  into  the  autumn,  to  the 
end  of  October,  when  they  contract  severe  coughs  that 
cling  to  them  until  the  following  spring. 

Still  "  vive  le  jeu  !  "  What  can  anything  matter  so  long  as 
one  is  well  enough  to  wield  the  gallant  racket,  and  knock 
out  his  neighbour's  eye  with  the  saucy  ball  ? 

There  was  once  a  naughty  man  with  a  bad  disposition 
who  used  to  punish  his  enemies  in  such  wise.  Just  give 
him  the  smallest  reason  for  offence,  and  he  would  challenge 
you  to  a  game  of  tennis  that  day,  or  next  week,  or  the 
following  month,  and  having  got  you  he  would  dexteroi^ly 
plant  a  ball  in  your  right  orb  and  make  you  see  stars  for  an 
hour  or  so.  He  would  then  apologize  profusely.  It  was 
safe,  and  it  was  sure,  and  no  man  could  swear  he  had  done 
it  on  purpose. 

Tennis  is  a  good  game,  no  doubt.     What  would  become 
of  the  country  folk  without  it?     But  that  modern  ir. 
the  tennis   tournament,    can   hardly    be    regarded    ; 
unmixed  joy.     So  far  as  my   experience  goes    I   tl 
leads  to  more  "evil  speaking,  lying  and  si 
"envy,  hatred,  malice  and  ail  uricharitableness,"  than  r?iy 
other  form  of  amusement  extant.     Indeed,  perhaps  if  we 
thfow  in  the  "  battle,  murder  and  sudden  death,"  w-j  shan't 
be  altogether  in  the  wrong.     Every  man's  hand  is  r 
every  man;  chivalry  dies  at   once.     And  in    the  smal.er 
country  places  where  these  unfortunate  collisions  annually 
take  place,  the  almost  inevitable  result  is,  that  at  le.ist  two 
or  three  families  cease  to  be  on  visiting  terms,  the  junior 
branches  of  each  being  so  heavily  afflicted  witlrophti 
that  they  fail  to  see  each  other  even  when  brought  face 
to  face  in  private  roads,  in  drawing-room?,  or  at  church. 

It  is  not  indeed  until  the  near  approach  of  the  following 
Christmas,  when  church  decorations  give  a  :d  for 

flirtation,  that  their  eyesight  \±  [y  restoiv- 

see  and  know  each  other  again,  until — the  next  tournament, 
1  To-da^  the  first  tournament  of  the  season  takes  place  at 


4*  A  LIFE'S  EEMOHSfi. 

Fenton-by-Sea.  From  time  immemorial  all  puttie  games 
have  been  carried  through  at  Parklands,  the  residence  of 
Sir  Bertram  Stamer;  a  tall,  silent,  lazy-looking  man  of 
about  thirty-five,  who  had  been  in  the  Guards,  but  at  his 
father's  death,  five  years  ago,  had  sold  out,  more  to  please 
his  mother  than  himself,  and  come  down,  presumably  to 
reign  over  Parklands.  This  trouble,  however,  his  mother 
very  considerately  took  off  his  hands,  ordering  and  regulat- 
ing everything  so  perfectly,  and  with  so  evident  a  deter- 
mination to  be  queen  regnant,  that  Sir  Bertram,  who  is  easy- 
going to  a  fault,  sank  into  his  secondary  place  at  once. 

She  is  a  large  woman,  eagle-eyed,  hooked-nosed — very 
unpleasant.  Ambitious  for  her  sons,  now  that  ambition  for 
herself  is  at  an  end ;  devoted  to  her  eldest  born,  careless  of 
her  second  son — beyond  the  fact  that  he  must  marry  well, 
to  raise  the  prestige  of  the  family:  To  this  end,  she  is  not 
only  eager,  but  indeed  determined  to  help  him ;  and  for 
this  purpose  has  selected  a  near  neighbour  of  hers,  a  girl  of 
large  fortune  and  good  family,  as  a  suitable  wife  for  him. 
That  anything,  that  any  one  should  dare  to  step  in  and  spoil 
her  plans  would  seem  to  her  arrogance  almost  impossible. 
And  yet  there  are  moments  when  she  doubts,  and  doubting 
hates  the  author  of  her  fears. 

Every  one  had  been  quite  sure  it  would  be  a  wet  day,  so 
naturally  it  is  a  fine  one.  Early  in  the  morning  the  courts 
had  been  rolled  and  mown  for  the  last  time,  the  dying  roses 
in  the  gardens  plucked  off,  the  walks  swept,  everything  put 
in  severest  order.  Not  only  the  neighbourhood,  but  pretty 
nearly  the  whole  county  has  been  invited,  and  already  the 
terraces  and  pleasure  grounds  are  filling  with  smart  folk  in 
their  very  best  attire,  who  have  come  presumably  to  see 
their  friends  defeated  at  tennis,  in  reality  to  see  the 
Duchess  of  Carminster,  who  has  promised  to  shed  a 
radiance  over  the  joust. 

All  the  women  are  looking  very  jubilant,  the  men  a  little 
depressed  ;  just  a  few  of  them,  who  in  their  white  flannels 
may  reasonably  be  supposed  to  be  embryo  conquerors  in 
the  struggle  at  hand,  are  marching  about  dropping  a  word 
here  and  there,  and  evidently  in  overflowing  spirits.  Of  these 
is  Mr.  Blount,  a  beardless  young  gentleman  of  any  age 
from  eighteen  to  twenty-eight,  a  nephew  of  Lady  Stamer's, 
BOW  staying  at  Parklands ;  as  he  is  pretty  nearly  always  at 
Parklands,  this  lasUs  scarcely  worth  recording. 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  49 

He  is  a  remarkably  ugly  young  man,  middle-sized,  stout, 
without  a  single  redeeming  feature,  except  his  eyes,  which, 
if  small,  are  so  thoroughly  alive  to  the  ludicrous  as  to  b« 
admirable. 

"  I  say,  Evelyn,  here  you  are,"  cries  he,  pouncing  upon 
Miss  D'Arcy  as  she  comes  slowly  towards  him  across  the 
grass,  the  colonel  beside  her.  "  How  do,  colonel  ?  Nice 
chilly  day  for  a  game  of  this  sort,  eh  ?  " 

"  Apoplexy,  apoplexy,  that's  what  it  will  mean,"  says  the 
colonel.  "  Thought  I'd  never  get  here.  Every  step  was 
a  misery.  I'm  getting  old,  sir,  getting  old." 

"  Bah  !  get  along  with  you,"  says  Mr.  Blount,  giving  him 
a  playful  dig  in  the  ribs.  "  I  like  to  hear  boys  like  you 
making  fun  of  us  old  fogeys ;  bet  you  forty  to  one,  colonel, 
you'll  be  a  baby  still  when  I'm  a  hoary-headed  sinner. 
Seen  Marian  ?  "  to  Evelyn. 

"  Yes  ;  just  as  we  came  here.    She  was  with  Lady  Stamer." 

"  She  was  anxious  to  sec  you.  I  thought  by  her  eye  there 
was  a  scolding  in  store  for  you,  and  rather  went  out  of  my 
way  to  give  you  the  warning  wink ;  but  unfortunately  I  took 
it  into  my  head  that  you'd  come  by  the  short  cut  across 
the  fields,  and  lo  1  and  behold,  you  came  by  the  orthodox 
avenue." 

"  You  gave  yourself  a  great  deal  of  trouble  for  nothing," 
says  Evelyn.  "  Neither  she  nor  anybody  else  has  seen  fit 
to  lecture  me  as  yet /  not  even  Lady  Stamer.  Howerer,  I 
live  in  hope." 

"You'll  win  to  day,"  says  Mr.  Blount  with  a  nod. 

"Oh,  no.     In  the  ladies'  singles,  do  you  mean?" 

"  Yes.     I'll  bet  my  bottom  dollar  on  you." 

"Don't/"  says  Miss  D'Arcy,  as  if  frightened.  "Bar- 
tholomew"— such  is  his  euphonious  name — "Bartholo- 
mew," in  a  wheedling  tone,  "  I  wish  you  wouldn't  speak  like 
that.  I  wish  you'd  try  to  think  I  wouldn't  win ;  it  is  so 
much  luckier." 

"  Dear  little  superstitious  Irish  girl  I"  says  Bartholomew, 
with  a  truly  beaut  ful,  if  slightly  hypocritical  smile.  "  I  il 
accede  to  your  wishes.  I  give  up  my  honest  opinion,  an1 
now  declare  to  you  that  a  worse  wielder  of  the  racket  than 
your  silly  self  I  never  saw ;  and  that  anything  like  your  pre- 
sumption in  coming  forward  to  try  and  win  the  golden 
apple  of  this  year  has,  up  to  this,  been  unheard  of.  Witt 
that  do?" 


44  A  LIFE'S  KEMORSfc" 

"  Mrs.  Wilding-Weekes  will  win  it,"  says  she. 

"She  may — she  may.  She's  rapid  enough  for  that  Ot 
anything.  I  do  like  that  woman ;  there's  no  pretence  about 
her." 

"  I  like  her,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy,  rather  curtly. 

"Well,  so  do  I,  my  good  child.  Ain't  I  saying  so, 
Give  me  candour  before  anything.  Besides,  she's  tremend- 
ously amusing,  which  can't  be  said  of  every  one.  Heard  of 
her  last  row  with  Weekes  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to,"  says  Evelyn,  Mrs.  Wilding- Weekes' 
rows  with  her  husband  coming  under  the  head  of 
periodicals. 

"  It  was  Pouncefort  of  the  roth,  this  time,"  says  Mr. 
Blount  unabashed.  "  Weekes  found  him  grovelling  at  he! 
feet — '  sprawling  on  the  floor,'  he  called  it — last  Tuesday. 
There  was  a  rather  better  display  of  fireworks  than  usual." 

"  I  wonder  you  aren't  ashamed  of  yourself,  Bartholomew,* 
says  Evelyn  indignantly. 

"  You  wonder  she  isn't,  you  mean." 

"  I  don't  indeed.  I  don't  care  what  people  say.  She 
may  be  a  little  bit  of  a  flirt,"  regarding  him  anxiously,  "but 
I  don't  believe  there  is  a  scrap  of  harm  in  her.  And  she  is 
the  kindest  woman  in  the  world." 

"  That's  where  it  is,"  says  Mr.  Blount.  "  She's  quite  too 
awfully  kind,  don't  you  know.  I  entirely  agree  with  you, 
my  best  of  girls." 

"  I  can't  bear  you  when  you  talk  like  that." 

"Then  I'll  talk  Ijke  this.  Nice  weather  for  crops,  isn't  it  ? 
but  perhaps  a  trifle  too  dry.  The  coming  harvest  won't  be 
as  good  as  the  harvest  all  we  old  people  remember  gathering 
two  or  three  hundred  years  ago.  Did  you  know  that  Mrs. 
Dumpling's  niece  has  married  the  Marchmonts'  groom? 
No  ?  Oh,  law  !  yes,  my  dear;  and  they  had " 

"  Don't  you  think  there  is  somebody  else  you  ought  to 
show  some  attention  to  ?  "  says  Miss  D'Arcy  severely,  hav- 
ing regard  to  the  fact  that  lie  is  her  hostess's  nephew ;  also 
with  a  view  to  showing  her  displeasure. 

"Not  a  soul.  I?n't  there  anybody  you  want  to  be  kinder 
to  than  you  are  to  me  ?  There  is ! "  tragically,  seeing  a  sud- 
den unhappy  change  in  her  mobile  face.  "  Who  is  it  ? 
Let  me  know  the  worst." 

"  I  suppose,"  says  she  reluctantly,  "  I  ought  to  go  and 
«ay  how  d'ye  do  to  Lady  Stamer,  I  haven't  done  it  yet" 


A  LIFE'S  KEMORSE.  45 

wlt  wouH  ba  a  step  in  the  right  direction  certainly. 
Come,  let's  take  ft  ten,  j—er.  Like  all  doses,  once  down  one 
feels  the  better  for  them — or  at  least  one  should.  Shall 
I  " — seeing  with  a  g'.incc  th:it  she  shrinks  from  the  small 
ordeal — "  see  you  through  it  ?  In  these  cases  of  assault  and 
battery,  it  is  always  Loiter  to  have  a  witness  on  your  side." 

"You  may  laugh,"  says  Evelyn  ruefully;  "but  she  is 

air/ays  so  horrid  to  me  that And  what  have  I  ever  done 

to  her  ?  "  cries  she  petulantly. 

"Ah!    that's  ju:it   it,"   says   Bartholomew,   who   knows 
exactly  what   she   has   done.     "By  Jove!   here  is   Lady 
Stamcr.     What  a  happy  meeting  !     My  dear  aunt,  here  is_ 
another  young  lady  who  is  dying  to  tell  you  what  a  lovely 
day  it  is." 

"  How  d'ye  do?  "  says  Lady  Stamer  frigidly,  giving  Evelyn 
two  reluctant  ; 

"How  d'ye  dor"'  says  Evelyn  icily,  refusing  to  press 
them. 

On  this  ensues  a  deadly  pause,  that  threatens  to  be 
eternal,  but  for  Mr.  Blount,  who  is  nothing  if  not  useful. 
To  be  ornamental  has  been  put  out  of  his  power  by  malig- 
nant fate — or  rather  his  mother,  who  in  her  time  was  the 
ugliest  woman  alive. 

"  Well,  go  on,"  says  he,  addressing  Evelyn  in  a  reproving 
tone.  "You  luv-ju't  said  it  yet.  It  is  a  fine  day,  isn't  it  ?" 
reproachfully.  "  No  need  to  tell  a  lie  this  time.  Lady 
Stamer  has  only  heard  it  on  forty-eight  occasions  up  to  this, 
and  is  therefore  as  yet  imperfect  in  it.  Give  her  another 
lesson." 

At  this  Miss  D'Arcy,  in  spite  of  her  nervousness,  smiles— 
a  rather  wintry  smile — and  as  here  most  opportunely  a  fresh- 
comer  claims  Lady  Stamer's  words  and  looks,  bhe  accepts 
her  chance,  and  flies  precipitately. 

"  I  saw  you  safely  through  that,  anyway,  eh  ?  "  says  Mr. 
Blount,  who  has  fluwn  with  her,  in  a  tone  of  much  self- 
gratulation. 

"You  did.  You  did  indeed,"  gratefully.  "After  that 
first  awful  '  how  d'ye  do  ? '  I  didn't  know  from  Adam  what 
to  say  next." 

"  I'm  of  the  greatest  use  to  all  my  friends,"  says  Mr. 
Blount  modestly.  "  I  don't  really  see  how  they  could  get 
on  without  me.  As  I  never  quarrel  with  any  one,  I'm 
Always  at  baud,  d'ye  see,  to  make  up  the  incessant  guerilla 


«6  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

warfares  that  seem  to  be  going  on  from  morning  until  night 
amongst  my  acquaintances." 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  see  that,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy.  "  You  aren't 
the  only  peaceable  person  in  the  world,  I  suppose.  You  do 
give  yourself  airs,  I  must  say.  I'm  not  a  quarrelsome  person 
at  all ;  not  at  all." 

"  Of  course  not.  How  could  you  think  I  alluded  to  you  ? 
Present  company  always  excepted.  My  dear  Evelyn,  it 
would  take  a  member  of  Parliament  from  your  own  land  to 
come  to  loggerheads  with  you.  I  don't  suppose  you  have 
a  feud  with  any  one  living.  I  say,  there's  Eaton.  Shall  I 
call  him  ?  Hallo,  Ea " 

"  No,  no,"  cries  Miss  D'Arcy,  catching  his  arm.  "  Don't  I " 
Then,  as  he  turns  a  quizzical  eye  on  her,  "  I  mean — that 
is" —  blushing  a  hot  and  lovely  red — "  I " 

"  Not  another  word,"  entreats  Mr.  Blount  politely.  "  You 
are  not  on  your  oath,  you  know.  You  and  he  are  not  on 
speaking  terms  for  the  moment  I  quite  understand.  And 
very  natural  too.  Man  as  a  whole  is  a  melancholy  failure. 
Woman,  on  the  contrary,  is  a  grand  success.  One  can  see 
then  at  a  glance  how  impossible  it  is  for  the  latter  to  put  up 
with  the  follies — and  worst — of  the  former.  Eaton  has — I 
can  see  at  once — been  playing  the  fool  with  a  vengeance. 
As  a  member  of  his  species  I  feel  I  should  plead  for 
forgiveness  for  him,  but  really  I  can't.  I  haven't  the  cour- 
age. I  can  see  at  once  that  the  patience  of  woman  must 
be  at  an  end,  and  that  man,  the  inconsequent,  should  be 
let  run  to  ruin  in  his  own  way." 

"  You'll  never  run  anywhere,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy  wrath- 
full  y.  "  You  won't  even  run  down.  You're  a  clock  that 
will  go  for  ever,  without  winding.  I  never  knew  any  one 
who  could  talk  so  much  nonsense  as  you  in  a  given  time." 

"However  small  the  line,  perfection  in  it  must  count  for 
something,"  says  Mr.  Blount  mournfully.  "I  feel  I  am 
beneath  your  notice;  but  Eaton,  happy  fellow,  apparently 
is  not.  You  can  show  displeasure  to  him  ;  you  can't  to  me. 
This  is  indeed  humiliation.  But  I  rise  from  it  to  do  you, 
the  ungrateful  one,  a  service." 

"You  needn't,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy,  carrying  out  the 
character  he  has  given  her  to  perfection.  "  Lie  as  low  as 
you  like ;  I  shan't  be  the  one  to  rouse  you." 

"  I  am  not  to  be  deterred  from  my  duly,  Evelyn,  by  any 
luch  paltry  asides.  I  understand  you  better  than  you  do 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSB.  4) 

yourself.  Eaton  has  been  presumptuous.  And  too  much 
of  anything,  we  all  know,  is  good  for  nothing.  A  little 
wholesome  correction  will  be  the  saving  of  him,  if  indeed 
anything  can  redeem  that  savage — man." 

"  I  assure  you,  Bartholomew,  you  have  taken  up  quite  an 
absurd  impression.  Eaton  has  not " 

"Now  my  dear  girl,  don't  waste  your  time.  Fibbing  to 
Bartholomew  means  always  that.  I  run  as  I  read,  and  I'm 

positive  that  Eaton  has Hah  ! "  stopping  short  and  staring 

at  a  turn  in  the  avenue  that  can  be  seen  through  the  shrub- 
beries where  they  are  standing.  Not  only  his  eyes  but  his 
ears  are  satisfied.  The  heavy  trampling  sound  of  horses' 
feet  comes  to  them  across  the  grass  and  trees. 

"Now  then!"  says  he,  laying  solemn  hands  on  Miss 
D'Arcy,  and  so  turning  her  as  to  face  the  house.  "  Hold  up 
your  chin  ;  your  face  a  little  more  this  way,  miss,  if  you 
please,"  with  a  professional  air.  "  Pull  out  your  frock— so. 
Now  look  at  me  and  smile.  Hah  !  that  will  do.  Now, 
don't  wink  1  For  here's  her  grace  at  last." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

HERE  she  is  indeed,  and  in  great  feather  apparently. 
There  is  a  general  sensation  ;  an  honest  straining  of  necks 
to  see  her  on  the  part  of  half  the  community,  a  most  dis- 
honest attempt  at  indifference  on  the  part  of  the  other  half. 

Now  she  has  reached  the  hall-door.  Now  she  has 
descended  from  the  carriage  and  is  beaming  blandly  on 
everything  and  everybody. 

Lady  Stamer  is  hurrying  across  the  lawn  to  receive  her, 
raging  furiously  as  she  goes  at  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Vaudrey, 
her  life-long  enemy,  is  already  hobnobbing  with  the  duchess, 
becking  and  nodding  at  her  with  all  the  vigour  (and  it  is  a 
good  deal)  of  which  she  is  capable. 

Mrs.  Vaudrey  indeed — to  use  her  own  expression  uttered 
later  on — has  beeo  careful  to  be  upo.n  the  spot  (wherever 
that  may  be)  at  the  moment  of  the  duchess's  arrival,  and  has 
rushed  forward  to  welcome  her  with  as  much  effusion  as 
though  she  were  mistress  of  the  ceremonies  and  Parklands 
to  boot. 

In  fact  for  a  full  minute  the  duchess — who  has  not  the 


4  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

Sainton  family  well  in  mind  at  the  moment — and  whosa 
memory  is  not  as  good  as  her  intentions — so  considers  her, 
and  pours  out  upon  her  all  sorts  of  civil  nothings.  It  is  only 
for  a  minute,  however,  and  as  providentially  no  names  are 
named  nothing  comes  of  it. 

"  Ah  !  Here  is  Lady  Stamer  at  last?  says  Mrs.  Vaud- 
rey,  and  her  grace,  with  a  little  inward  gasp  and  a  strong 
desire  for  laughter,  goes  over  it  all  again  heroically. 

"  So  glad  !  So  charmed  !  What  a  quite  too  lovely  place. 
And  such  a  delicious  day.  Perfect  queen's  weather,  isn't 
it?  And  this  is  Carminster,"  pulling  forward  her  little 
duke,  a  small  boy  of  about  seven  with  a  pretty  rosy  face  and 
a  stout  pair  of  legs.  His  grace  drags  off  his  cap,  after  a 
hint  from  his  mother,  says  "yes"  and  "no"  in  the  right 
place,  but  in  an  absent-minded  fashion,  with  his  eyes  on 
the  distant  tents,  where  no  doubt  are  the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt, 
and  generally  permits  himself  to  be  made  much  of  in  a 
placid  sort  of  way. 

"  Not  half  the  manner  of  my  Herbert,"  says  Mrs.  Vaud- 
rey  to  herself  with  deep  complacency,  which  indeed  is  the 
solemn  truth ;  Master  Vaudrey — aged  nine — being  one  in 
a  thousand  so  far  as  conversational  talent  goes. 

And  now  the  train  sweeps  on.  It  is  coming  this  way. 
The  duchess  is  flanked  on  one  side  by  Lady  Stamer  and 
on  the  other  by  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  who  refuses  to  be  relegated 
to  a  lower  position,  and  holds  up  her  head  valiantly  as  if  to 
remind  everybody  of  the  Hon.  that  is  tacked  on  to  her 
name.  In  vain  Lady  Stamer  frowns  her  down ;  Mrs.  Vaud- 
rey is  in  her  most  airy  mood  and  is  doing  the  amiable  to 
the  duchess,  who  takes  her  advances  very  pleasantly.  It  is 
all  the  same  to  the  duchess.  She  has  got  to  talk  so  much 
in  such  a  len-th  -of  time,  and  it  isn't  of  the  least  conse- 
quence who  is  to  be  the  recipient  of  her  remarks.  But  to 
Lady  Stamer  all  this  is  gall  and  wormwood.  Mrs.  Vaudrey 
of  all  people — detestable  woman — in  a  gown  that  might 
have  come  out  of  Noah's  Ark,  and  a  bonnet  that  will  prob- 
ably be  the  height  of  the  fashion  in  a  dozen  years  to  come, 
but  not  now.  And  she  had  meant  to  have  everything  so 
entirely  as  it  should  be.  A  desire  to  fall  on  Mrs.  Vaudrey 
and  sraite  her  hip  and  thigh  is  raging  within  her  wh.  _t  she 
talks  platitudes  and  looks  mildly  at  her  august  guest 

Meanwhile  the  duchess,  who  is  in  exuberant  spirits,  and 
who  affects  a  royal  memory  without  having  it,  is  walking 


A  LIFE'S  EEMORSB.  4f 

about,  tefting  everybody  how  delighted  she  is  to  see  them 
again.  As  it  is  fourteen  years  since  last  she  was  at  Fenton, 
this  is  remarkably  good  of  her  !  Tew  of  us  are  so  constant 
in  our  friendships.  It  is  perhaps  a  little  unfortunate  that 
some  of  those  upon  «rhom  she  presses  this  old  friendship — 
whom  she  makes  a  point  of  specially  remembering — should 
be  people  who  never  sa\v  her  until  this  afternoon. 

However,  this  breaks  nu  bones.  Nobody  is  offended  by 
it.  It  is  always  something  \o  have  shaken  hands  with  a 
duchess. 

She  is  an  extremely  big  woman,  young  still,  with  a  florid 
complexion,  large  violet  eyes,  hair  the  colour  of  a  tar-barrel, 
and  no  nose  to  speak  of.  The  -daughter  of  an  earl  and  the 
wife  of  a  dead  duke,  she  has  yrt  about  as  much  the  sacred 
touch  of  race  about  her  as  the  orthodox  milk-maid. 

She  looks  as  pleasant  as  you  /ike,  however,  which  covers 
a  multitude  of  wrong  features,  and  goes  about  now  beaming, 
like  the  sun,  on  the  just  and  <he  unjust  alike.  She  is  at- 
tended by  a  host  of  satellites  besides  Lady  Stamer  and  Mrs. 
Vaudrey,  people  staying  with  her  at  the  Castle,  and  chosen 
rather  indiscriminately,  to  say  the  least  of  it. 

The  business  of  the  day  has  commenced.  The  battle 
rages  fiercely.  The  hot  sun,  regardless  of  the  comfort  of 
the  players,  is  pouring  down  its  rays  upon  the  several  courts 
in  a  strictly  impartial  fashion. 

Evelyn,  having  come  victoriously  through  one  single, 
flings  her  racket  to  the  colonel,  who  is  absurdly  proud  of  her 
sue  ,ess  so  far,  and  drops  thankfully  into  a  low  seat  near  her. 

*•  What  a  good-looking  child  ! "  says  the  duchess.  "  And 
cau'tshe//rt}'  /  I  really  hope  she'll  win.  So  nice  to  be  able 
to  run  about  like  that  and  defy  old  Sol.  I  should  think  the 
prize  for  the  ladies'  single  is  sure  to  be  hers  ;  I'm  thinking 
of  getting  up  some  theatricals  or  tableaux  at  the  Castle,  and 
—does  that  little  girl  belong  to  this  neighbourhood  ?  " 

"  Well — not  exactly,"  begins  Lady  Stamer  in  her  chilliest 
drawl,  but  Mrs.  Vaudrey  interrupts. 

"  Oh  yes ;  quite  near,  close  at  hand,"  says  she  briskly. 
"  And  she  is  such  a  dear  girl.  Nice  people  altogether ;  but 
poor,  you  know,  poor." 

**  That's  nothing,"  says  the  duchess,  with  great  geniality. 
I  daresay  she  has  taken  a  good-natured  glance  at  Mrs, 
Vaudrey's  gown. 

**Just  so — just  so,"  says  that  irrepressible  person.   **Th0 


{0  A  LITE'S  REMORSE. 

colonel,  her  uncle,  is  delightful.  They  are  Irish,  yon  know,' 
and " 

"  Irish— how  interesting !  I  knew  there  was  something 
queer  about  her,"  says  her  grace,  with  all  the  air  of  one 
who  has  just  discovered  a  wild  animal  of  an  interesting 
species.  "  Positively  I  must  get  an  introduction." 

Not  yet,  however ;  the  final  tie  is  being  now  played,  and 
Miss  D'Arcy  is  once  again  en  evidence.  She  looks  like  a 
slim  fairy  flitting  here  and  there,  taking  her  balls  without 
a  mistake,  and  seemingly  without  exertion.  The  heat  that 
has  made  her  opponent — a  daughter  of  a  neighbouring 
squire — almost  apoplectic, --has  given  her  only  an  undue 
pallor.  It  is  a  sharply-contested  game,  but  the  sequel 
leaves  Evelyn  the  winner  of  the  gold  bracelet  that  the 
duchess  has  kindly  consented  to  give  away. 

Pale,  tired,  yet  certainly  and  very  naturally  filled  with 
a  sense  of  triumph,  she  makes  her  way  swiftly  across  the 
court  to  a  little  corner  behind  the  rhododendrons,  that  is  so 
out  of  sight  as  to  be  unknown  to  the  many.  Eaton  Stamer, 
as  she  passes  him,  gives  her  a  glance  of  congratulation 
largely  fraught  with  appeal,  but  taking  no  notice  of  it  she 
leaves  him  behind  her  unforgiven,  and  finding  her  coveted 
recess  throws  herself  upon  the  rustic  bench,  and  draws  her 
breath  in  long  sweet  gasps.  Oh!  what  a  struggle  it  has 
been.  Her  enemy  was  strong — but  how  sweet  is  victory  ! 

She  smiles  to  herself  in  a  little  exhausted  way  as  she 
leans  back  against  the  seat  She  is  indeed  almost  too  tired 
to  show  resentment  when  a  tali,  gaunt  figure,  coming  up  the 
path  upon  her  right,  stops  before  her. 


CHAPTER  IX 

"Ir  was  folly  to  play  like  that  on  such  a  day,"  says  Mr. 
Crawford  almost  vehemently,  his  usually  subdued  manner 
quite  shaken.  "  You  have  over-exerted  yourself." 

"  No,  no,"  says  she,  smiling  again.  It  is  impossible  to  be 
angry  with  this  melancholy,  quiet  man. 

"  You  have  1 "  says  he  with  decision.  M  You  are  looking 
terribly  white." 

"  Better  than  looking  terribly  red,"  says  she,  with  a  slight 
laugh  that  is  suggestive  of  tears,  so  full  of  fatigue  it  sounds. 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  51 

11  You  are  thinking  of  your  adversary,"  says  he  with  a 
half-smile.  "  Poor  girl !  she  was  twice  undone.  But  it  was 
presumption  on  her  part  to  dream  of  defeating  you.  How- 
ever, we  may  let  her  go  by.  As  you  are  strong,  I  am  sure 
you  are  merciful." 

"  I  assure  you  she  was  a  worthy  opponent,"  says  Evelyn. 
"  You  need  not  think  I  won  easily.  It  was  as  much  as  I 
could  do  to  cry  '  Victory  I ' " 

"  I  can  see  that,"  says  he.  "  You  are  very  tired ;  you 
must  not  stay  here  any  longer  in  the  sun.  Come  " — hold- 
ing out  his  hand  to  her  with  an  air  of  decision — "  come 
with  me  to  one  of  those  tents  over  there,  and  let  me  give 
you  some  iced  cup  or — well,  water,  if  you  prefer  it." 

Evelyn,  rising  mechanically,  follows  him.  That  iced 
water  had  a  tempting  sound.  It  somehow  gives  her  plea- 
sure, too,  to  be  able  to  refuse  any  knowledge  of  Eaton- 
Stamer's  existence  as  once  again  she  passes  him,  Mr.  Craw- 
ford by  her  side. 

Inside  the  tent  coolness  reigns  as  well  as  aoHtude. 
Evelyn,  sinking  thankfully  on  to  a  seat,  accepts  with  grati- 
tude the  iced  water  that  Mr.  Crawford  brings  her.  Even 
here  through  the  chinks  of  the  awnings  the  hot  sun  sygnds  a 
ray  every  now  and  then,  and  from  far  off  the  music  of  the 
band,  so  suggestive  of  movement,  of  activity,  comes  to  them. 
Still  it  is  delicious  here — the  very  far-offness  of  the  world 
outside  giving  it  a' charm.  Too  tired  to  care  to  talk, 
Evelyn,  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  gives  herself  up  a  ready 
prisoner  to  indolence.  Mr.  Crawford  may  talk  to  her  if  he 
likes,  but  she — she  cannot  talk  to  any  one. 

And  for  five  minutes  or  so  Mr.  Crawford  does  talk,  content 
to  get  a  vague  "  yes  "  or  "  no  "  for  answer  from  the  tired 
child,  and  then,  being  of  a  nature  that  desires  silence  for 
himself,  he  too  drops  out  of  the  desultory  conversation,  and 
except  for  the  buzzing  of  a  dissipated  blue-bottle  that  has 
got  into  a  wine-glass  and  is  too  intoxicated  to  get  out  of  it 
again,  no  sound  can  be  heard. 

Silence  however,  is  sometimes  as  irritating  as  noise. 
Evelyn, waking  up  presently  from  her  delightful  waking  siesta, 
becomes  conscious  of  the  fact  that  neither  she  nor  Mr. 
Crawford  have  opened  their  lips  for  a  considerable  time. 
Is  he  angf y  with  her  ?  Has  she  been  rude  ?  Thus  startled 
into  life,  she  leans  her  elbow  on  the  table,  and  turns  an 
apologetic  glance  on  her  companion. 


I*  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

It  is  thrown  away.  Mr.  Crawford  sees  neither  her  not' 
any  one,  save,  perhaps,  some  being  from  his  dead  past.  His 
thoughts  are  not  here,  at  any  rate,  in  this  s\veet,  cool  tent, 
with  the  sweetest  of  all  companions  by  his  side ;  they  are 
straggling  farther  afield — or  backward,  who  shall  say  ?  At 
All  events,  they  are  not  happy  thoughts. 

His  brows  are  knitted;  his  lips  are  compressed.  One 
might  easily  imagine  that  the  teeth  beneath  them  are 
clenched.  He  is  stooping  forward  with  one  hand  bound 
within  the  other,  and  a  pallor  suggestive  of  a  cruel  strain 
upon  the  whole  man  covers  his  face. 

Evelyn,  gazing  at  him,  feels  a  sudden  sense  of  fear  over- 
come her.  Instinctively  she  shrinks  backwards,  and  then, 
as  if  ashamed  of  herself,  straightens  herself  again  deliber- 
ately. Poor  man  !  Some  great,  some  unconquerable  grief 
is  his.  And  how  silently,  how  nobly  he  bears  it.  Not  a 
murmur,  a  whimper  to  any  one.  It  must  have  been  some 
woman  who  has  made  him  sad  like  that — some  woman 
whom  he  had  loved  long  ago,  and  never  forgotten.  Perhaps 
she  had  loved  some  one  else,  and 

Animal  magnetism  here  declares  itself.  Mr.  Crawford 
feeling,  without  knowing  it,  the  kindly  commiseration  of 
those  lovely  eyes,  wakens  hurriedly  from  his  day-dream,  and 
turning  his  head,  finds  her  sympathetic  gaze  fixed  earnestly 
upon  him. 

"  Well  ?  "  says  he,  pulling  himself  together  by  an  evident 
effort,  and  smiling  interrogatively  on  her. 

"  Oh  ! "  says  she,  flushing  hotly ;  "  I — it  was  nothing.  I 
was  only  thinking  that " 

"  Yss  ?  "  questions  he  again,  smiling  still. 

"That  you  were  thinking,"  concludes  she,  very  shyly, 
yet  with  a  certain  air  of  girlish  audacity  that  ia 
charming. 

"J... beg  your  pardon,"  says  Mr.  Crawford  contritely; 
"you 'were  right.  I  was  thinking — thinking;"  he  pauses, 
and  his  face  grows  suddenly  wooden ;  that  past  recollection 
that  had  been  so  full  upon  him  just  now  returns  again  and 
strikes  him  dumb  for  the  second. 

"  Well,  so  1  said,"  returns  she  gently.  Her  voice  breaks 
the  unholy  charm  that  binds  him. 

"  I  should  beg  your  pardon,"  says  he,  growing  all  at  once 
conventional.  "  "l  have  been  neglectful  of  you.  But  it  is  4 
trick  I  have  fallen  into,  of  brooding— j 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSK  $J 

he  checks  himself  and  sighs  profoundly.     "It  comes  of 
much  living  alone,"  he  says  presently. 

"  Then  you  should  give  up  solitude.  I  don't  know  where 
you  have  been  before  this,  but  for  the  future  you  must  give 
solitude  a  wide  berth,"  says  she  in  her  kind  little  way. 
"  You  will  soon  get  to  know  us  all,  and  then  you  will  give 
up  that  horrid  brooding." 

"  I  seem  to  know  you  now,"  says  Mr.  Crawford  in  a 
pleased  yet  troubled  sort  of  way. 

"  That  is  well ;  that  is  a  beginning.  You  have  not  met 
Marian  yet,  have  you — Marian  Vandeleur  ?  No  ?  Ah, 
well,  she  will  be  of  use  to  you.  Nothing  morbid  can  live 
near  her.  And  you  want  a  human  tonic  of  some  sort,  don't 
you  ?  " 

She  is  feeling  honestly  sorry  for  him,  is  honestly  anxious 
that  means  of  some  kind  should  be  found,  and  at  once,  to 
lift  him  out  of  this  slouch  of  despond  into  which  he  has 
fallen.  To  her  tender  heart  it  seems  terrible  that  he  should 
be  grieving  always — always,  for  that  lost  and,  presumably 
(for  the  sake  of  romance),  false  love  of  his. 

And  really,  when  one  comes  to  think  of  it,  there  could 
have  been  no  excuse  for  her.  Mr.  Crawford,  even  now,  is 
a  nice-looking  person,  if  elderly ;  and  twenty  years  ago 
might  doubtless  have  been  reckoned  handsome.  What  did 
the  girl  mean  ? 

And  what  constancy  he  has  displayed !  Quite  something 
to  marvel  at  in  this  present  frivolous  age.  Poor  man  \  So 
long  ago,  too,  it  must  all  have  been,,  and  yet  he  remembers 
it,  apparently,  as  though  it  had  been  yesterday.  What  a 
heroic  stability  of  purpose  !  He  is  still  clinging  to  a  romance 
that  time  has  left  far  behind  him. 

"You  should  not  think  so  much,"  says  she,  leaning 
towards  him  across  the  rustic  table  with  what  seems  to  him 
a  divine  compassion  in  her  young  face. 

"Ah!  give  me  a  medicine  for  that! "says  he  quickly. 
"  For  thought — for  the  abolition  of  memory — that  greatest 
curse  of  all ! "  He  has  spoken  with  evident  impulsiveness, 
and  now,  as  if  shocked  at  his  impulse,  grows  suddenly 
dumb. 

This  pretty  child  !  this  little  half-grown  scion  of  Mother 
Nature,  with  her  big,  interested  eyes !  Is  she  not  a  healing 
angel  in  herself,  with  her  soft,  gentle  smile,  her  wa>  m 
parted  lips  ? 


54  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

"You  have  been  unhappy?"  says  she  very  timidly,  very 

tenderly,  approaching  hio  grief  cautiously,  as  one  might 
who  is  longing  to  lay  a  soothing  finger  on  it^and  yet  scarcely 
daring  the  deed. 

"  Yes,"  says  Mr.  Crawford  slowly,  and  no  more.  It  is  the 
balJiSt  of  replies  to  the  most  imaginative  of  questions. 

"  I  can  see  it,"  says  she,  still  full  of  eager  desire  to  com- 
fort him,  and  so  far  fascinated  by  his  hidden,  mysterious 
sorrow  as  to  find  it  impossible  to  let  it  go  by  her  without 
having  a  glance  at  it.  "  It  " — lifting  the  friendliest  of  eyes 
to  his — "it  vas  a  great  trouble  ?" 

"A  great  troub'.e,"  acquiesces  he.  And  then,  with  a 
heavy  breath  that  is  almost  a  groan — "  Such  a  trouble  as  few 
men,  God  grant,  have  got  to  endure." 

He  thrums  absently  upon  the  table  as  !n3  says  this;  his 
face  set,  an  1  v.ilh  the  blows  drawn  somewhat  upward. 

"  Oh  1  I'm  sorry/'  says  she  simply.  Her  eyes  have  filled 
with  tera-3.  V,":;;;  'J;e  gentlest  meaning  in  the  world  she 
holds  out  her  hand  to  him  across  the  table,  the  small  pink 
palm  uppermost 

Something  either  in  her  tone,  her  action,  or  his  own 
memories  so  disturbs  him  here  that  he  rises  abruptly, 
stands  irresolute  for  a  moment  as  if  battling  with  some 
hidden  demon,  after  which,  sinking  back  upon  the  seat  once 
more,  he  grasps  the  little  kindly  hand  and  holds  it  closely, 
as  though  salvation  lies  within  those  fragile  fingers.  He 
trembles  visibly.  A  mist  floods  his  eyes  and  obscures  her 
from  him.  Dear  heaven!  what  pity  !  what  kindness  !  But 
blind — unseeing.  Would  there  be  pity  or  kindness  if  she 
knew?  Well,  she  shall  never  know  1 

"It  must  have  been  a  great  trouble  to  last  all  these 
years  1 "  says  Evelyn  with  heavy  emphasis  and  increasing 
pity,  unconsciously  clinging  to  her  secret  belief  that  the 
trouble  relates  to  the  days  of  his  youth  and  has  had  a  sweet- 
heart for  its  centie. 

"  It  will  last  for  ever,"  returns  he  moodily. 

"  Oh,  no !  That  is  folly.  You  should  conquer  such  a 
thought  as  that,"  says  the  girl  shaking  her  head  reprovingly. 
Nevertheless  she  regards  him  with  admiration.  What  con- 
stancy !  What  faithfulness  !  All  these"  years,  and  still  to 
feel  so  keenly.  Ah  !  this  is  real  love  1 

"  What  caused  it — your  grief,  I  mean  ?  "  questions  she 
very  softly  still,  indeed  almost  tremulously  now ;  it  is  sa 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  55 

i 

though  she  is  approaching  sacred  ground.  Is  not  love  always 
sacred  ?  And  it  is  the  most  wonderful  of  all  things  that  he 
should  have  remembered  all  these  years.  To  her  he  is  an 
old  man,  nearly  as  old  as  the  colonel — only  a  little  younger 
than  the  vicar. 

At  her  words  he  has  loosed  her  hand.  Not  angrily,  but 
slowly,  slowly — reluctantly,  but  surely,  as  if  compelled  to 
let  her  go. 

"  Was  it,"  says  she  very  tenderly, — "  was  it  death  ?  " 

At  this  he  starts  to  his  feet  as  though  she  has  stung  him, 
and  turns  haggard,  staring  eyes  on  hers. 

"  Death — death  ! "  says  he  hoarsely.  "  What  should  I 
have  to  do  with  death  ?  Speak — explain  ! " 

There  is  something  so  wild,  so  strange,  in  his  glance  that 
Evelyn,  a  little  frightened,  rises  too. 

"  I  only  thought,"  explains  she  nervously,  "  that — that 
she  might  have  died." 

"  She — she  !  Who  ?  "  He  looks  at  her  frowningly,  like  a 
man  awakening  from  a  dream — a  bad  dream.  There  is  relief 
in  his  whole  air.  Miss  D'Arcy  grows  very  red  and  distinctly 
ashamed. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  thought  it,"  says  she,  in  a  low  tone, 
lowering  her  eyes ;  "  but,"  nervously,  "  I  got  it  into  my  head 
somehow  that — that  you  had  loved  some  one  once,  and 
that  she— had  died  !  " 

Mr.  Crawford  draws  his  tall,  lean  figure  to  its  fullest 
height  and  makes  a  curious  gesture,  as  if  flinging  something 
from  him.  Then  he  laughs. 

"  You  fancied  me  a  heartbroken  lover,"  says  he ;  "  you 
imagined  that  I  had  once  loved,  and  that  my  love  had  been 
taken  from  me,  or  had  jilted  me.  Well,  the  latter  fancy 
would  have  been  likely  enough.  I  am  not  a  man  whom 
women  would  oare  for ;  yet  both  your  surmises  (if  you  had 
the  two)  were  wrong.  In  all  my  forty-five  years  I  have 
never  known  what  it  is  to  love." 

Evelyn  stares  at  him  as  if  he  is  indeed  something  well 
worth  studying.  Never  to  have  been  in  love !  Not  even 
once !  It  sounds  incredible.  A  devout  believer  in  Dan 
Cupid,  though  as  yet  she  has  not  succumbed  to  his  bow  and 
arrow,  Miss  D'Arcy  regards  with  curiosity  the  man  who  has 
during  a  lifetime  successfully  defied  him.  A  little  contempt 
mingles  with  her  astonishment.  And  another  thing — forty- 
five  I  Is  he  telling  the  exact  truth,  or  is  he  stretching  it  a 


gft  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

little  bit  ?  Surely  he  is  more  than  that.    Quite  an  old  maty 

with  hair  as  grey  as 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  never  been  in  love  ?  * 
says  she,  looking  at  him  with  large  distinctly  disapproving 
eyes.  "  One  ought  to  be  in  love  some  time  during  one's 
life." 

Mr.  Crawford  turns,  the  word  "never"  on  his  lips.  His 
eyes  meet  hers.  The  lovely  childish  yet  earnest  face,  the 
calm  lips,  the  expectant  gaze,  all  are  before  him.  and  as 
they  grow  upon  him  the  word  dies  upon  his  mouth.  It  is 
as  a  flash,  a  stroke,  a  revelation,  an  instant's  work ;  yet  none 
the  less,  sure.  The  word  that  a  moment  ago  would  have 
seemed  to  him  the  truth,  would  now  be  certainly  a  lie. 

Miss  D'Arcy,  who  is  watching  him,  too,  laughs  gaily. 
That  undercurrent  of  feeling  that  has  rendered  him  dumb 
is  unknown  to  her. 

"Ah!  You  shrink  from  the  answer,"  says  she.  "And 
quite  right  too.  I  should  not  have  put  the  question." 

" Perhaps  not,"  says  he.  "And  yet,  believe  me,  in  all 
my  life  before  I  came  to  Fenton,  I  never  loved — I  never 
cared  for  one  woman  beyond  another.  Many  women  I 
have  liked — not  one  have  I  given  my  heart  to.  So  far  I 
was  blessed."  There  is  melancholy  in  the  closing  sentence. 
"  Tut ! "  says  she,  as  if  disappointed.  "  Then  see  "how 
you  have  deceived  me !  Here  have  I  been  wasting,  oh  ! 
any  amount  of  sympathy  on  you,  and  after  all,  as  it  proves, 
for  nothing.  Do  you  think  I  shall  readily  forgive  that?" 

"  I  have  fallen  in  your  estimation,"  says  Mr.  Crawford. 
"  I  feel  that.  But  would  you  have  had  me  tell  you  anything 
less  or  more  than  the  truth  ?  I  am  not  a  happy  man,  as  you 
may  see.  What  should  such  as  I  have  to  do  vith  a  sweet- 
heart?" 

"  Heretic !  "  says  she  with  a  pretty  playfulness.  "  Don't 
you  know  that  a  sweetheart  is  the  sovereign  care  for  all 
sorts  of  doleful  dumps  ?  Come,  amongst  the  many  beauties 
here  to-day,  surely  I  can  find  you  a  medicine  for  your 
fancied  sorrows." 

She  has  recovered  all  her  wonted  spirits.  She  is  standing 
before  him,  smiling,  beckoning  him  towards  the  opening  of 
the  tent. 

"  Why  should  I  stir  ?  "  says  he  suddenly,  following  her 
fanciful  mood,  yet  with  deep  meaning  in  his  tone.  "Cau  1 
Uot  find  my  heart's  ease  hen  9  " 


A  LIFE'S  ROIOSSE.  g? 

He  laughs  nervously  as  if  at  his  own  temerity,  and  she 
laughs  gaily  in  concert  with  him.  It  is  a  pretty  joke,  no 
more.  She  moves  towards  the  open  door,  he  following  her, 
and  here  she  comes  face  to  face  with  Eaton  Stainer. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Miss  D'ARCY  is  quite  equal  to  the  occasion.  She  looks 
right  through  him,  and  goes  on  her  way  without  a  falter. 
Captain  Stamer,  however,  happens  to  be  a  person  of  much 
resource  also.  He  steps  lightly  in  front  of  her. 

"  I've  had  quite  a  difficulty  about  finding  you,"  says  he. 
"  Ah,  how  d'ye  do  ?  "  to  Crawford.  "  But,"  gaily,  "  here  you 
are  at  last." 

.  Miss  D'Arcy  is  so  overcome  by  this  audacity  that  words 
fail  her. 

"  Been  enjoying  yourself?  "  goes  on  Captain  Stamer,  with 
growing  geniality,  unchecked  by  the  eye  she  has  fixed  on 
him. 

"  Very  much  indeed,  thank  you,"  stonily. 

"  So  glad.  Rather  warm  day  though,  isn't  it  ?  "  turn- 
ing to  walk  with  them. 

"  You  have  not  yet  told  me  why  you  are  here,"  says  Miss 
D'Arcy,  turning  at  last  indignant  eyes  to  his. 

"  No  ?  Haven't  I  ?  I  quite  thought  I  had.  Marian  gave 
me  a  message  for  you  to  the  effect  that  she  would  lilae  you 
to  come  to  her  for  a  moment,  if  possible.  She  would  have 
come  to  you,  only " 

"  Where  is  she  ?  " 

"Over  there,  I  think,"  pointing  to  where  a  group  is 
gathered  at  the  end  of  the  tennis  ground. 

"  Will  you  take  me  to  her,  Mr.  Crawford  ?  "  asks  Evelyn, 
turning  to  him  with  a  smile. 

"  Certainly,"  and  the  three  start  off  together  towards  the 
spot  on  which  Miss  Vandeleur  is  supposed  to  be,  Captain 
.Stamer  having  refused  to  take  his  dismissal.  Half  way 
there,  however,  a  diversion  occurs.  From  behind  a  clump  of 
irhododendrons  a  pretty  woman  darts  forward,  and  takes 
possession  of  Mr.  Crawford. 

"  Here  you  are,"  cries  Mrs.  Wilding-Weekes.  "  And 
alive  too  1  Of  course  I  thought  you  were  dead  43  you 


g§  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

never  came  to  take  me  to  see  those  swans.  Hah !  Evetyn, 
I  expect  I  have  you  to  thank  for  his  defection.  That's  one 
I  owe  you." 

"  I'm  extremely  sorry,"  says  Mr.  Crawford  composedly. 
"  I  can't  think  how  I  forgot  it.  I  hope  you  will  excuse  me, 
but " 

"  I  always  excuse  everybody,"  says  Mrs-.  Wilding-Weekes. 
"  I'm  bound  to — they  have  always  such  a  lot  to  excuse  in 
me.  And  as  there  is  still  time  for  you  to  redeem  your 
promise,  I  can't  see  that  I  have  any  grievance.  Miss  D'Arcy 
will  let  you  off.  Three  is  trumpery,  you  know." 

She  nods  blithely  at  Evelyn ;  seizes  upon  the  unwilling 
Crawford  and  hauls  him  off,  almost  literally  before  he  has 
time  to  frame  a  defence. 

It  is  a  little  way  she  has,  so  nobody  minds  her  much 
when  they  have  got  over  the  first  shock.  Her  manners  are 
not  her  strong  point,  but  her  face  is  undeniably  pretty  in 
spite  of  the  turned-up  nose  that  adorns  the  centre  of  it.  Her 
eyes  are  bright  and  sparkling :  her  years  are  few ;  her 
knowledge  of  mankind  large  and  unlimited ;  social  laws  are 
as  naught  to  her,  and  propriety  as  considered  by  the  more 
sober  section  of  humanity  is  a  myth.  Her  husband,  as  will 
be  readily  understood,  is  an  entirely  secondary  person  in 
her  menage,  and  but  for  the  bursts  of  jealousy  that  about 
once  a  week  drive  him  into  prominence  he  would  probably 
be  as  good  as  dead  and  buried. 

So  far  as  her  acquaintances  go,  women,  except  for  one 
here  and  there,  she  vigorously  refuses  to  cultivate,  whilst  in 
her  eyes  no  man,  however  undesirable,  is  without  his 
interest.  Her  gowns,  the  cut,  the  extraordinary  variety  of 
them,  is  a  never-ending  source  of  scandalous  gossip  amongst 
her  set.  She  hunts  in  the  season  three  days  a  week ;  in 
and  out  of  season  she  flirts  openly  and  thoroughly.  Her 
hair  is  a  bright  red ;  her  hands  little  models  :  need  it  be  said 
she  plays  the  banjo.  Mr.  Wilding-Weekes  being  a  man  of  old 
family  and  large  means,  no  one  has  as  yet  plucked  up  courage 
to  cut  her,  though  her  detractors,  mostly  women,  of  course, 
would  gladly  have  seen  a  safe  way  to  doing  so.  Meanwhile 
she  goes  on  her  way  rejoicing,  careless  of  comment,  and  ever 
eager  for  the  fray.  She  has  one  virtue,  however — she  is 
eminently  good-natured;  she  has  one  friend  too,  of  her  own 
§ex— Evelyn  D'Arcy. 

Mr.  Crawford  being  a  new  man  is  naturally  of  supremo 


A  LIFE'S  EEMOESE.  & 

Importance  in  her  eyes ;  having  impounded  him,  nothing  is 
left  to  Evelyn  but  to  continue  her  way  to  Marian  with  Stamer 
as  sole  companion. 

"  For  once  Mrs.  Wilding- Weekes  has  done  me  a  good 
turn,"  says  that  young  man  with  a  laugh. 

"  Yes  ?  "  with  unpleasant  question  in  the  tone, 

"  She  has  sequestrated  Crawford — see  ?  * 

M  No,  I  don't,"  immovably. 

" Oh,  well,  /do.     Horrid  old  bore,  isn't  he ? * 

"  I  think  he  is  one  of  the  nicest  people  I  ever  met." 

"  You're  easily  pleased  then." 

"There  is  one  thing,  Eaton,  that  may  as  well  be  said.  You 
have  forced  yoUr  society  upon  me,  and  as  you  compel  me  to 
endure  it  I  must  beg  you  not  to  say  uncivil  things  of  people 
whom  I  like." 

"  What  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  you?"  demands  Captain 
Stamer,  turning  sharply  round  as  if  to  examine  her  features 
at  leisure.  They  have  entcr.ed  a  laurel  walk  and  are,  so  long 
as  nobody  turns  the  'corner,  virtually  alone.  "  Has  he 
taught  you  to  speak  like  that  ?  " 

"Nobody  has  taught  me  any  thing,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy  with 
much  spirit.  "  What  I  know  I  have  learned  from  myself,  and 
one  thing  my  inner  consciousness  has  evolved  is,  that  I  will 
let  no  man,  or  woman  either  "  (with  rising  wrath),  "  speak  to 
me  as  you  have  done." 

"  Look  here,"  says  Stamer  promptly,  "  I  know  what  you 
mean,  and  I  know  too  that  you  have  every  cause  to  hate 
me ;  I  should  never  have  said  what  I  did  to  you,  even 
though  I  swear  I  meant  nothing  uncivil  by  it.  I  wouldn't 
annoy  you,  Evelyn.  Well,  I  apologise ;  I  was  a  brute.  I 
will  go  down  on  my  knees  if  you  like  and  cry  ptccavi,  only 
make  it  up  with  me." 

At  this  Miss  D'Arcy,  who  has  been  watching  him  out  of 
the  corner  of  her  eye,  after  a  severe  struggle  with  her  more 
dignified  self,  gives  way  to  mirth. 

"  You  needn't  spoil  your  trousers  for  tne,"  says  she ;  "  the 
whole  matter  isn't  worth  a  yard  of  tweed." 

"  Am  I  to  understand  by  that,  that  you " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  forgive  you,"  indifferently. 

"  Give  me  your  hand  on  it,"  says  Captain  Stamer,  and 
having  secured  that  pretty  member,  he  carries  it  to  his  lips 
And  kisses  it  with  an  apparently  profound  gratitude. 

"  There,  that  will  do,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy,  shaking  him  off 


&  A  LIFE'S  EEMORSB. 

•  little  coldly.  "Now  come,  come  to  Marian;  If  indeed 
regarding  him  with  sudden  doubt,  "  she  ever  sent  you  to 
seek  me." 

"  She  did.  She  did,  I  give  you  my  honour, "  declares  he 
fervently.  "  You  see  the  prizes  are  going  to  be  given  away, 
and  the  duchess " 

"Tiiere  was  no  necessity  to  trouble  me  about  that.  The 
colonel  could  have  got  my  prize  for  me." 

"  It  appears  the  duchess  expressed  a  wish  to  give  it  to  you 
in  person." 

"A  fig  for  the  duchess  !"  says  Miss  D'Arcy,  with  very 
proper  contempt  for  authority  of  all  sorts.  "  Do  you  think 
I  would  go  out  of  my  way  for  ten  thousand  duchesses  ?  Tut  I 
you  don't  know  me.  I " 

But  at  this  moment  a  very  charming  person  comes  round 
the  corner,  and  Miss  D'Arcy,  who  had  been  strong  to  resist 
&  mighty  array  of  duchesses,  goes  down  before  one  lovely 
face. 

"  Ah,  Marian  ! "  cries  she,  running  to  her. 

"  But  where  have  you  been,  Evelyn  ?  "  says  Miss  Vande- 
leur,  in  a  little  vexed  way.  As  her  vexed  ways  are  always 
for  the  good  of  others,  and  never  for  the  good  of  herself, 
nobody  minds  them.  She  is  a  tall  slight  girl  of  about  three- 
and-twenty,  with  a  singularly  attractive  face,  not  strictly 
pretty,  perhaps,  but  very  lovable  and  full  of  dignity ;  the  lips 
are  sweet 'and  suggestive  of  repose,  of  strength ;  the  forehead 
is  broad,  the  whole  expression  gentle,  but  firm. 

"  I  was  coming  to  you,"  says  Evelyn,  "  but — but  Eaton 
tells  me  the  duchess  wants  to  give  me  my  prize  in  person, 
and,"  nervously,  "  I  should  not  like  that,  with  everybody 
looking  on,  you  know  ;  it — it  would  be  dreadful;  couldn't,'* 
coaxingly,  "  couldn't  the  colonel  get  mine  for  me  ?  " 

"  No,  you  must  come  yourself ;  the  duchess  wants  to  see 
you,  to  be  introduced  to  you.  You  really  must  come, 
Evelyn,"  seeing  signs  of  insubordination  in  her  small  friend's 
face.  "  For  one  thing,  it  will  be  a  rudeness  to  refuse,  and 
for  another,  she  is  going  to  have  a  large  party  at  the  Castle 
for  tableau::,  plays,  &c.,  and  she  has  asked  me  to  stay  there 
and  she  wants  you  to  stay  there  also." 

"Oh,  well,  I  couldn't,  there's  an  end  of  it.  I  couldn't? 
says  Miss  D'Arcy,  with  actual  horror  in  her  tond,  "  Are  you 
mad,  Marian  ?  Why,"  in  a  whisper,  this  lest  Bfuton  should 
hear,  "  I  haven't  a  gown  fit  to  be  seen.  I  — " 


A  LIFE'S  KEMORSB.  6f 

"Forget  all  that  for  the  present.  You  can  refuse  her  in- 
vitation later  on  if  you  like ;  for  the  moment  all  you  have 
got  to  do  is  to  come  up  to  her,  take  your  prize,  accept  your 
invitation,  and  beat  a  dignified  retreat.  There,"  laughing, 
"  it  isn't  so  much  after  all,  is  it  ?  " 

"No,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy,  giving  in  evidently,  but  in  so 
heart-broken  a  tone  that  both  her  companions  burst  out 
laughing. 

She  is  borne  off  forthwith  to  receive  her  prize,  a  handsome 
gold  bracelet,  and  to  receive  also  an  invitation  to  the 
Castle  for  the  following  week,  which  she  acoepts,  with 
Miss  Vandeleur's  eye  upon  her ;  and  presently  the  duchess 
sails  away,  carrying  her  train  with  her,  and  everybody 
else,  feeling  the  day  to  be  now  really  at  an  end,  make 
their  adieux  to  Lady  Stamer,  who  is  looking  tired  and  bored, 
The  colonel  and  Mrs.  D'Arcy  have  driven  away  by  themselves 
in  the  rare  old  article  they  call  a  phaeton,  and  which  would 
fetch  any  price  at  a  fancy  sale,  Evelyn  having  declared  her 
intention  of  walking  home.  It  is  a  cool,  pretty  walk  under 
soft  green  trees  that  intertwine  their  branches  across  the  road, 
and  one  she  loves  to  take.  Eaton  Stamer  accompanies  her 
to  the  entrance  gate,  and  here  she  stops  him. 

"  Thus  far,  and  no  farther,"  says  she  with  just  a  littlo 
ghost  of  a  smile.  She  has  not  yet  forgiven  him. 

"  Nonsense.     I  shall  see  you  home." 

"  And  be  late  for  dinner,  and  have  Lady  Stamer's  wrath 
hurled  upon  my  head.  No,  thanks." 

"  You  mean  my  society  is  not  worth  that.  Well,  it  isn't. 
But  I'll  have  plenty  of  time  to  take  you  to  Firgrove  and 
come  back  again  to  dinner." 

"  You  really  must  not  come,"  says  Evelyn  with  a  cold 
gl.mce.  "I  prefer,  I  much  prefer,  to  return  home  alone." 

"  How  hard  you  are,"  says  he,  with  a  wrathful  glance  at 
her — "just  like  a  bit  of  granite.  I'll  speak  to  Mr.  Vaudrey 
about  you.  In  my  opinion  you  are  in  a  bad  way.  People 
who  won't  forgive  their  neighbours  are " 

"  My  dear  girl !  Is  that  you  ?  Going  home  ?  I  quite 
thought  you  had  gone  with  the  colonel  and  Mrs.  D'Arcy. 
So  fortunate.  Now  I  shall  have  a  companion,  for  your  way 
is  mine."  The  loud  and  piercing  tones  of  Mrs.  Vaudrey 
smite  upon  the  air. 

Captain  Stamer  smothers  what — let  us  hope — is  a  kindly 
exclamation, 


63  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

"Good-bye!"  says  he,  holding  out  his  hand  to  Evelyn, 
All  hope  of  a  t£te-a-tete  with  her  is  now  clearly  at  an  end. 
"  So  glad  you  will  have  so  delightful  a  companion  as  Mrs. 
Vaudrey.  One  would  think" — to  that  unsuspicious  lady— - 
"that  you  had  known  how  I  longed  for  you.  It  will  be  quite 
a  comfort  for  Evelyn  to  have  some  one  to  talk  to  on  her  way 
home." 

"  Oh,  thanks !  thanks ! "  says  Mrs.  Vaudrey  vaguely.  She 
is  staring  at  him  with  all  her -might.  "Bless  me,  Eaton, 
what's  that  in  your  hair  ?"  says  she — "just  over  the  tip  of 
your  ear." 

"  What  t "  exclaims  he  wildly,  making  violent  dabs  at  the 
part  of  his  person  indicated.  No  one  likes  to  think  an  ear- 
wig or  a  caterpillar  is  nesting  in  one's  head, 

*'  There  1  it's  gone,"  says  Mrs.  Vaudrey.  "  After  all" — with 
a  careful  examination  of  the  ground  at  her  feet — "  I  believe  it 
was  only  a  bit  of  twig ;  but  it  looked  so  odd,  and  I  thought 
it  moved.  One  never  can  be  sure  of  those  insect  beasts. 
Gave  you  a  shock,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  daresay  I'll  recover — after  you  have  gone,"  says  he 
grim  >y.  He  is  again  holding  out  his  hand  to  Evelyn.  "  Say 
you  forgive  me,"  whispers  he  hurriedly,  tightening  his  grasp 
on  hers.  As  he  is  plainly  filled  with  a  determination  to  hold 
her  prisoner  until  pardon  is  granted,  Miss  D'Arcy  wisely 
surrenders. 

"  Yes,"  says  she.  It  is  a  bald  making-up,  but  the  smile 
that  accompanies  the  monosyllable  more  than  compensates 
for  the  poorness  of  it. 

"  Until  to-morrow  then,"  says  he,  lifting  his  hat.  "Good- 
bye, Mrs.  Vaudrey  j  safe  home.  I  need  not  wish  you  better 
company." 

He  beams  upon  that  offending  lady  also,  and  with  a  last 
glance  for  Evelyn  turns  back  to  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XI 

"WELL — it  went  off  very  well,  didn't  it  ?"  says  Mrs.  Vaudrey, 
stepping  out  smartly  beside  Evelyn;  one  end  of  her  gown. 
is  dragging  gaily  in  the  dust  beside  her,  but  that's  nothing 
here  nor  there  where  Mrs.  Vaudrey  is  concerned. 
*  it  was  »  lovely  day,"  says  Evelyn,  who^e  spirits  b*'** 


A  LIFE'S  EEMORSB.  «3 

risen  unaccountably  during  the  last  three  minutes.  Can  it 
be  Mrs.  Vaudrey's  society  that  has  had  this  desired  effect  ? 
Perhaps  it  was  the  triumph  of  having  conquered  Eaton's 
determination  to  go  home  with  her — perhaps  it  is  the 
Christian  satisfaction  she  ought  to  feel  at  having  at  last  for« 
given  him. 

"  Well,  so-so,"  says  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  as  if  hardly  pleased 
at  the  answer  received.  "  There  was  a  moment  when  I  felt 
certain  we  were  going  to  have  a  shower."  It  is  quite  plain 
that  the  shower  would  have  received  a  hearty  welcome  from 
one  of  the  guests  at  all  events. 

"  Oh,  I'm  glad  it  kept  off.  Everything  was  as  near  to 
perfection  as  it  could  be." 

"It  was  smart,  very  smart;  to  do  Bessie  Stamer  justice 
she  certainly  grudges  nothing — that  is  to  her  own  aggrandize- 
ment. And  of  course  she  can  do  things  as  she  likes.  No 
stint,  you  know  ;  and  everything  in  her  own  hands.  Ha  \ 
ha  ! "  with  hollow  mirth.  "  I  always  laugh  when  I  think 
what  a  cipher  Sir  Bertram  is.  We  all  speak  of  his  mother's 
entertainments,  whereas  in  reality  they  are  his." 

"  He  is  certainly  a  very  good  son,"  says  Evelyn  cautiously, 
who  has  been  over  the  ground  before. 

"  He's  a  fool !"  says  Mrs.  Vaudrey  with  a  truly  noble  dis- 
regard of  subterfuge.  "  She  gets  all  the  praise,  and  fa  pays 

the  piper !  If  he^married  now "  long  pause,  filled  with 

hopeful  imaginings — "  what  a  change  it  would  be  for  her.  I 
hope" — with  a  sudden  eagerness  that  carries  her  on  a  yard 
or  two  with  great  speed — "that  when  he  does  marry,  his 
wife  will  prove  a  virago  !  " 

"  Oh  !  Poor  Sir  Bertram,"  says  Evelyn  a  little  startled  5 
"  what  on  earth  has  he  done  to  you  ?  " 

"  Nothing  I  nothing.  I  wish  him  no  harm.  But  I  hope 
I  shall  live  to  see  a  mistress  at  Parklands  who  will  be  a 
match  for  Bessie.  I've  known  her  all  my  life,  as  girl  and 
woman,  and  she  wants — well,  to  be  treated  as  she  treats 
others.  Not  another  word  about  her,  my  dear,"  as  though 
Evelyn  has  been  abusing  her  unrighteously.  "  It  isn't  right 
that  a  girl  like  you  should  nourish  vindictive  feelings.  Did 
you  see  her  gown,  dear  ?  •  Handsome,  eh  ?  " 

"I  thought  it  beautiful,"  says  Evelyn  absently.  Her 
mind  has  flown  indeed  to  other  scenes. 

"  Fifty  pounds,  if  it  cost  a  penny.  But  too  young  for  her. 
Did  you  mark  that,  Evelyn  ?  Tweaty  years  too  young.  A 


6|  A.  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

girl  might  have  worn  it !  Absurd  in  a  woman  of  her  age  to 
deck  herself  out  like  that.  And  have  you  noticed  ?  a  young 
gown  on  an  old  woman  (and  Bessie's  old  if  you  like)  only 
makes  her  seem  more  than  her  age.  Didn't  you  think  she 
looked  specially  worn — done  up — eh  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  look  at  her,"  says  Evelyn,  who  indeed  seldom 
studies  Lady  Stamer's  features. 

"  Well,  she  did ;  older  than  she  is,  though  she  is  fifty-five 
if  a  day  ;  she  may  pose  as  forty,  if  she  likes,  but  who  is 
going  to  believe  her?  And  at  all  events," cheerfully,  "she 
can't  look  it,  though  she  may  say  it.  She  is  ten  years  older 
than  I  am,  though  you  wouldn't  think  it,  eh  ?  " 

"I  would,"  says  Evelyn  honestly;  and  indeed  Mrs. 
Vaudrey,  badly  gowned  and  all  as  she  is,  does  look  con- 
siderably Lady  Stamer's  junior. 

«  NO — would  you  really  ?  "  says  that  matron,  much  grati- 
fied. "Well,  perhaps  there  are  people  who  wear  worse. 
I  must  say  you  looked  nice  to-day,  if  you  like  " — this  is  a 
delicate  return  compliment.  "  I  could  see  the  duchess  took 
a  tremendous  fancy  to  you,  which  was  by  no  means  agree- 
able to  my  Lady  Stamer." 

"  I  don't  see  why  she  need  care,"  with  a  slight  frown. 

"  That's  just  it.  It's  no  affair  of  hers,  yet  she  must  inter- 
fere. It's  all  jealousy,  my  dear,  and  something  else,  too,  in 
your  case.  She  is  afraid  of  you,  my  dear." 

"  Of  me  ?  of  me  ?     Nonsense  ! " 

11  There,  there,  so  be  it,  as  they  say  at  the  end  of  the 
prayers.  But  I  have  my  own  thoughts,  for  all  that.  The 
duchess  was  civil  to  me  too,  didn't  you  think  ?  But  then 
her  family  and  ours  are  old  friends ;  you  know  all  about 
that,  don't  you  ?  " 

•«  Yes— all— everything,"  declares  Miss  D'Arcy  with  the 
vehemence  of  despair,  yet  hardly  hoping  thereby  to  stem 
the  torrent  Nevertheless  this  time  she  escapes  a  rehearsal 
of  the  relations  that  once  existed  between  the  Saintons  and 
her  grace.  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  providentially,  has  let  that  thing 
she  is  pleased  to  call  her  mind  run  upon  more  immediate 
matters. 

*'  Bessie's  face  was  a  picture  when  she  came  up  and  found 
ne  receiving  her  '  august  guest ' — that's  what  she  calls  her, 
I'll  be  bound.  Did  you  see  her  ?  Ha— ha— ha ! "  TKfcre 
is  genuine,  if  malicious,  mirth  in  her  note  this  time.  "  She 
was  green.  The  4uchess  disapproved  of  her  gown ;  I  could 


A  LITE'S  EEMOBSB,  6$ 

see  that  at  a  glance.  Altogether  too  juvenile.  But  poor 
Bessie  never  could  understand  the  date  called  yesterday. 
Thinks  herself  always  young  and  beautiful ;  she's  hideous,  to 
my  eyes.  That  hooked  nose  of  hers  would  condemn  her 
anywhere." 

"She  could  never  have  been  even  good-looking,"  says 
Evelyn  with  conviction,  to  whom,  as  we  know,  Lady 
Stamer  is  abhorrent. 

"  No,  neither  bodily  nor  mentally.  And  to  see  her  strut- 
ting about  in  that  gown.  Well  1  One  shouldn't  talk  about 
it;  any  one  listening — except  you,  my  dear,  who  know 

me — might  think  I  was  jealous  of  it.  But  as  for  me . 

However,  one  can't  help  thinking  how  fortunate  she  is. 
Look  at  my  gov/n,  now,  for  example,  such  a  contrast  to 
hers,  yet  I  am  better  born  than  ever  she  was.  "  This  " — 
pulling  out  the  ancient  skirt  with  a  vigour  that  makes 
Evelyn  shudder  for  the  duration  of  it — "is  its  fourth 
summer;  it  has  been  dyed  once,  turned  twice.  And  not  so 
bad  after  all,  is  it  ?  " 

She  pauses  here  with  such  a  triumphant  air,  that  Miss 
D'Arcy  has  not  the  heart  to  refrain  from  lying. 

"  It  looks  very  nice,"  says  she. 

"  It  is  wonderful — really  quite  a  grand  old  skirt,  /call  it, 
after  Gladstone,  don't  you  know.  It  has  stood  to  me,  in 
season  and  out  of  it.  Nothing  like  getting  a  good  material 
when  you  are  about  it." 

"  It  is  economy,"  says  Evelyn,  "  only  somehow  we  never 
have  the  money  to  get  the  good  material." 

"  Well,  I  don't  suppose  I  ever  shall  again,"  says  Mrs. 
Vaudrey,  "  now  the  children  are  getting  so  big.  But,  how- 
ever, this  " — touching  the  heirloom  again — "  will  last  me  for 
a  good  bit  yet  on  high  days  and  holidays.  But  it  does 
seem  hard,  doesn't  it,  that  Bessie  should  have  so  many  good 
gowns  when  I  have  only  one  ?  And  I  wouldn't  care  about 

that  either  if  she  wasn't  so .  Good  gracious  ! " — breaking 

©ff  suddenly — "  what  a  vindictive  eye  she  has.  A  key  to 
the  soul,  my  dear.  Between  you  and  me,"  pushing  her 
hand  through  Evelyn's  arm  and  speaking  in  a  trag  c 
whisper — "  she's  a  snake  !  " 

"Oh,  no,"  says  Evelyn. 

"  Yes,  she  is.  She's  a  snake.  Who  should  know  her  if 
I  didn't  ?  She  '  smiles  and  smiles,  and  is  at  heart  a  villain.'  * 
She  makes  tkis  remarkable  assertion  triumphantly,  being 


to  A  LIFE'S  EEMOESE. 

evidently  under  the  impression  that  she  is  quoting  Shake* 
peare  correctly. 

« I  don't  really  think  she  is  as  bad  as  that,"  says  Evelyn, 

rather  startled. 

"  She  is  though.  She  is  a  regular  snake  in  the  grass 
As  if  I  didn't  understand  her  !  I  should.  She  is  my  worst 
enemy ;  yet  I  have  done  that  woman  ever  so  many  good 
turns  from  time  to  time— long  ago,  I  mean,  when  she,  the 
squire's  daughter,  was  glad  to  know  the  daughter  of  a  baron. 
Not  that  I  boast,  Evelyn.  I  should  hope  I'm  above  Mat 
sort  of  thing.  But  it  is  galling,  you  know." 

"  It  is,  I  suppose,"  says  Evelyn,  with  deep  sympathy. 

"  One  would  think  I  was  the  last  person  in  the  world 
she  feels  envy  about,  but  it  seems  it  is  not  so.  She  envies 
me  my  influence  in  the  village;  she  envies  me  my  old 
women,  who,  goodness  knows,  aren't  worth  that  or  anything 
else  ungrateful  old  wretches  !  She  would  undermine  me  if 
she  could.  See  how  she  acted  the  other  day  about  that 

"She  acted  abominably,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy,  who  is  a 
partizan  of  the  first  water,  and  besides  has  wrongs  of  her 
own  to  remember. 

"  It  seems  impossible  that  she  should  grudge  me  the  littl 
I  have  got.  She,  who  has  everything  in  the  world— position, 
money,  and  good  sons,  too,  though  I  don't  like  Sir  Ler- 
tram's  eye— knowing,  /call  it— and  what  have  I  got  ?  Only 
the  children,  and  the  old  parishioners,  and—well,  yes,  as 
if  admitting  something  against  her  better  judgment, 
"  Reginald,  of  course." 

Reginald  is  Mr.  Vaudrey.  M 

«  You  could  have  no  better  possession  than  Mr.  Vaudrey, 
cries  Evelyn  quickly. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  placidly ;  "  I  quite  agree  with  you.  .but 
he's  poor,  you  know.  He,"  thoughtfully,  "is  the  poorest 
person  I  know.  We  never  have  a  penny  we  can  squander 
comfortably,  like  other  people,  and  that's  a  great  drawback, 
you  know.  One  likes  to  squander  occasionally.  It  is  in 
the  blood.  But  squandering  and  we,  are  two."  e 

"  Yes,  that's  the  way  with  us,  too,"  says  Evelyn,  shaking 
her  charming  head  with  quite  a  melancholy  air. 

"And  how  different  it  is  with  her— Bessie  Stamer,  I  mean. 
Of  course  she  comes  of  a  good  family.  No  one  is  saying 
ft  word  against  that.  County  people  they  were.  The 


A  LIFE'S  EEMORSE.  6? 

Damtrys,  you  tcnow,  of  Warwick.  But — well,  one  shouldn't 
talk  of  it." 

"Why  not?"  says  Evelyn,  with  commendable  courage, 
knowing  Mrs.  Vaudrey  will  talk  of  it,  in  spite  of  her  words 
to  the  contrary.  "  You  mean  that  your  father " 

"Just  so,  my  dear.  She  was  a  commoner — I  was  not.  Bui 
my  father,  Lord  Sainton,  hadn't  a  sou.  He  was,  I  remember, 
delighted  when  Mr.  Vaudrey  proposed  to  me.  One  off  his 
shoulders,  don't  you  see  ?  A  mouth  less  to  feed  and  clothe." 

"And  you — was  it  to  oblige  your  father  that  you  married 
Mr.  Vaudrey  ?  "  asks  Evelyn,  a  touch  of  indignation  in  he: 
tone. 

« N — o>  my  dear.  Honestly,  I  think  not.  It  seems, 
absurd,  now,  Evelyn,  doesn't  it?  but  really  I  believe  there 
was  a  time  when  I  was  dreadfully  in  love  with  Mr.  Vaudrey." 

"  I-should  think  you  would  be  dreadfully  in  love  with  him 
now,  too,"  says  Evelyn,  with  a  slight  increase  of  the  in- 
dignation. 

"  Oh,  well — as  to  that ! "  says  Mrs.  Vaudrey  with  a  most 
unromantic  laugh.  "  There — you  mightn't  think  it,"  says 
she,  as  if  starting  a  regular  problem,  difficult  of  solution, 
*'  but  there  was  a  time  when  I  used  to  think  Reginald  was 
absolutely  handsome  /  "  Poor  Reginald  !  Years  and  worries, 
and  frettings  over  his  destitutes,  have  left  him  far  from  hand- 
some now,  save  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  can  appreciate  him. 
It  angers  Evelyn  that  his  nearest  and  dearest  should  take 
him  thus  baldly,  but  after  all  no  man  is  a  prophet  in  his  own 
country. 

"  He  has  a  beautiful  face  always,"  says  she,  with  a  little 
lump  in  her  throat,  as  she  sees  rise  before  her  mind's  eye 
the  vicar's  pale,  eager,  emaciated  features;  his  great  un- 
worldly eyes,  his  stoop,  the  unsatisfied  longings  that  life 
has  left  so  clearly  stamped  upon  him. 

"There  are  uglier,  certainly,"  says  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  pursing 
up  her  lips,  as  if  with  a  desire  to  give  him  and  all  mea 
fair  play. 

"He  is  the  best  man  in  the  world,"  says  Evelyn  vehe- 
mently. 

"  He  is,"  agrees  his  wife,  placidly.  "  Too  good.  I 
wish,"  with  a  heartfelt  sigh,  "  he  had  a  little  less  goodness, 
and  a  little  more  coin  of  the  realm." 

"You  can't  mean  that,"  says  Evelyn,  who  after  all  ta 
young. 


68  ,  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

"  Catft  I  ?  "  with  deep  feeling.     «'  I  do,  though.'    And  I 

wish  he  had  a  tit  tie  more  common  sense  into  the  bargain. 
I  don't  mind  talking  to  you,  Evelyn — you  are  one  of  the  most 
reasonable  girls  I  know,  though  you  are  good-looking,  and 
I  say  that  if  you  were  in  my  stjoes  you  would  wish  Mr. 
Vaudrey  different  too.  He  is  a  oaint,  if  you  like,  but  one 
fares  lenten-wise  all  the  year  round  when  attached  to  that 
class,  and  one  tires  of  bread  without  butter  always.  Why 
can't  he  think  ?  Is  to-morrow  of  no  consequence  ?  Surely 
he  needn't  give  all  to  the  poor." 

"  Not  ail,  of  course." 

"No.  Even  Abraham  did  not  go  so  far  as  that.  A 
little  of  all  that  he  possessed  satisfied  him.  But  Mr.  Vau- 
drey wants  to  out-Caesar  Caesar.  Now  look  here,  Evelyn  \ 
You  will  admit,  I  suppose,  that  every  gentleman  must  have 
at  least  two  suits  of  clothes." 

"  At  the  least." 

"  One  suit  for  Sundays,  and  one  for  weekdays.  Well, 
tint  is  just  what  I  can't  make  Mr.  Vaudrey  take  to  heart. 
Up  coines  one  of  the  parishioners — old  Hodgson  for  choice 
if  you  like — complaining  of  his  eternal  sciatica  or  lumbago, 
or  whatever  ridiculous  disorder  may  be  rife  in  the  parish  at 
the  time ;  and  on  the  instant  Mr.  Vaudrey  falls  a  victim  to 
his  wiles,  and  gives  him,  without  a  thought,  his  second  best 
breeches.  After  that,  of  what  use  is  the  second  best  coat 
and  waistcoat,  I  want  to  know  ?  Of  none — of  none  at 
all,  and  nothing  therefore  is  left  him  but  to  give  his  Sun- 
day suit  to  his  Monday's  work.  That's  imperative,  Evelyn. 
You  know  a  man  can't  go  visiting  all  over  the  parish  in  a 
coat  and  waistcoat  only." 

"  No  !  no,"  says  Evelyn  regretfully.  She  is  evidently 
seriously  annoyed  with  the  pre;  ent  state  of  our  moral  laws. 
A  coat  and  waistcoat  only  !  No,  they  would  never  sanction 
tl  ?.t.  She  is  troubled  too  with  an  awful  inward  vision  of 
her  pastor  and  master,  careering  wildly  down  the  village 
street,  clad  in  the  scanty  habiliments  Mrs.  Vaudrey  has  so 
graphically  pictured.  Would  the  children  hunt  him  ?  the 
dogs  ?  It  is  a  terrible  bit  of  imagery !  She  pales  before  it. 

"  Oh  !  he  ought  not  to  give  away  his  trousers,"  says  she, 
almost  tearfuuy. 

"  I  knew  you  would  sec  it  as  I  do,"  returns  Mrs.  Vaudrey, 
well  pleased.  "But  he's  a  fool,  my  dear — Reginald  is  a 
regular  fool.  One  would  think  he  was  a  millionaire  the 


A  LIFE'S  KEMORSE.  69 

fray  he  goes  on.     Yet  he  never  has  a  decent  rag  to  hia 
back,  and  not  an  ounce  of  flesh  on  his  bones." 

"  He  does  look  thin,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy,  calling  up  the 
vicar's  cadaverous  face.  "  Does  he,"  fakeringly — "  does 
he  eat  enough  ?  Has  he  a  good  appetite  ?  " 

"  Enormous ! "    says    Mrs.    Vaudrey   with   considerable 
energy.     "  He  eats  like  a  trooper.     More  than  I  do  with  all 
the  children  thrown  in.     There  again,  njy  dear  Evelyn,  you 
can  see  how  expensive  it  is  to  marry  a  really  good  man.    If 
he  would  doze  away  an  hour  or  two  of  his  day  in  his  study, 
pretending  to  write  his  sermons,  you  know,  or  studying  the 
Ancient  Fathers,  a  mild  luncheon  might  satisfy  him,  but  all 
that  trudging  through  the  keen  air  from  morning  till  : 
to  see  how  his  poor  are  getting  on,  gives  him  an  apt 
before  which  an  alderman  might  quail." 

Evelyn  sighs,  with  a  sense  of  relief. 

f*  Why  didn't  he  come  to  Parklauds  to-day? "  asks  she. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

w  MY  dear  girl,  need  you  ask  ?  Old  Betty  Whmsdale  has  a 
touch  of  the  '  rheumatics',  and  wanted  a  prayer  said  over  her. 
As  a  charm,  believe  me  ;  but  of  course  Mr.  Vaudrey  thinks 
it  was  an  excess  of  religion  on  her  part,  and  so  he  has  given 
his  day  to  her.  Besides,  he  wasn't  fit  to  be  seen.  Martin 
Tweedy  got  the  second-best  trousers  last  Sunday' week,  and 
now  Reginald's  best  clothes  aren't  good  enough  for  a 
duchess  !  Besides — between  you  and  me  and  the  wall- 
be  doesn't  like  Bessie." 

"  Surely,  surely,"  indignantly,  "  she  could  not  have  been 
rude  to  him" 

"  Couldn't  she  ?  That's  all  you  know  about  it.  Now  I 
know  very  well  all  Mr.  Vaudrey's  faults,  but  1  tell  you  this, 
Evelyn,"  a  deep  red  mounting  to  her  brow,  "  that  the  person 
who  could  wilfully  say  a  word  to  wound  him,  must  be  essen- 
tially bad.  He  wouldn't  tell  me  about  it,  but  I  found  it 
out.  It  was  about  his  early  celebrations.  You  know  how 
he  takes  to  heart  any  little  sneer  about  that  part  of  his 
ministry,  and  Lady  Stamer  no  doubt  knows  it  too ;  anyhow 
she  offended  him.  I  suppose,"  bitterly,  "she  wanted  to 
get  rid  of  him ;  he  was  not  v/ell  dressed  enough  for  he* 


JO  A  LIFE'S  REMORSB. 

dinner-parties.  His  evening  suit  is  shabby,  I  know,  and 
where  on  earth  is  he  to  get  seven  guineas  to  buy  another  ? 
Besides,  he  was  always  asking  her  for  money  for  his  chari- 
ties, and  she  hates  giving.  But  it  was  his  shabbiness  above 

all  things  that  annoyed  her.  She I  declare  to  you, 

Evelyn/'  breaking  off  suddenly  to  seize  her  companion's 
arm,  and  walking  her  almost  into  a  run  in  her  excitements. 
11  there  are  moments  when  I  wish  I  was  Lucrezia  Borgia  or 
some  such  enlerprising  person,  that  I  might  poison  that 
woman." 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  would  gain  by  it,"  says  Evelyn, 
who  is  fast  getting  out  of  breath. 

"  Don't  you  ?  I'd  gain  the  loss  of  her,  for  one  thing. 
However,"  with  pious  hope  in  tone  and  look,  "she  can't 
have  it  all  her  own  way  for  ever.  The  time  will  come 
when  she  will  find  she  is  not  as  clever  as  she  thinks.  She'll 
be  foiled  sooner  or  later.  For  one  thing,"  with  a  glance  at 
Evelyn,  "  I  don't  believe  that  pet  scheme  of  hers  will  com<3 
off." 

"What  scheme  ?"  indifferently. 

"  As  if  yoy  didn't  know,"  says  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  giving  her 
a  playful,  if  somewhat  hurtful,  dig  in  the  ribs. 

"  Well,  I  don't !"  says  Miss  D'Arcy  rather  shortly.  No- 
body likes  a  severe  pain  in  the  side. 

"  What !     Not  about  Marian  Vandeleur  ?  " 

0  About  Marian  ?  " 

"  Who  else,  in  Heaven's  name  ?  She's  the  only  one 
round  here  with  a  penny  to  her  fortune." 

"  I'm  still  all  abroad,"  says  Evelyn,  throwing  out  her 
pretty  hands  expressively. 

"You  mean  to  tell  me  honestly  that  you  didn't  kriowl" 
exclaims  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  coming  to  a  sudden  standstill^  and 
reading  the  girl's  face  as  though  she  would  compel  the  truth 
to  lie  there  in  open  print. 

"  I  think  I've  been  telling  you  that,  for  the  past  five 
minutes,"  says  Evelyn  a  little  impatiently. 

"Then  you  are  the  one  ignorant  person  in  Fenton.  All 
the  world  knows  that  she  has  set  her  heart  on  marrying 
Eaton  to  Marian  Vandeleur  !  " 

There  is  a  slight  pause,  whilst  the  girl,  who  has  come  to 
ft  standstill  too,  gazes  into  the  woman's  eyes. 

"  Oh,  no  !  Oh,  that  is  ridiculous !  That  will  never  be," 
Says  Evelyn  at  last,  with  a  curious,  thoughtless  vehemence. 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  yi 

"That's  what  I  say.  It  will  never  be.  She  won't  be 
able  to  manage  that — eh  ?  "  with  a  meaning  side  glance  at 
her  companion,  that  is  completely  thrown  away. 

"And  yet — why  not  ?"  says  the  girl  very  slowly,  and 
with  an  expression  on  her  face  as  though  she  is  looking 
inward  and  backward  on  her  life's  short  journey.  "  Why 
should  they  not  marry  ?  It  would  be  a  good  match  for  both. 

Marian  is  the  dearest  girl  I  know,  and  Eaton "  the 

pause  is  eloquent.  "  He  would  suit  her — I  think — per- 
haps." 

"  Perhaps ! "  says  Mrs.  Vaudrey  drily,  giving  her  a  shrewd 
glance.  "  What  a  hypocrite  you  are,  Evelyn  !  Of  course  I 
know  girls  are  never  honest  about  these  things,  but  to  me, 
an  old  friend — I ° 

"What  things?0 

"  Oh,  there  !  If  you  won't  you  won't,  you  know.  But 
that  one  should  be  all  at  once  deaf,  and  dumb,  and  blind, 
is  asking  a  good  deal.  However,  no  matter.  The  principal 
thing  is,  that  you  agree  with  me,  that  Bessie  will  be  frus- 
trated in  this  one  matter  at  least.  Here's  the  stile,  my 
dear.  Here  we  part.  It  is  my  short  cut  to  the  Vicarage. 
As  for  you,  you  haven't  a  dozen  more  yards  to  go." 

"  Even  if  I  had  I  should  enjoy  it — the  evening  is  so  lovely," 
says  Evelyn.  "  Good-bye.  Give  my  love  to  the  vicar  and 
to  the  children,  and  send  up  the  two  young  ones  to  see  us 
to-morrow,  if  you  can  manage  it." 

"  I'll  be  delighted  to  manage  it,"  says  Mrs.  Vaudrey  cheer- 
fully. "And  it  is  always  such  a  treat  to  them  to  go  to 
you." 

She  kisses  Evelyn,  steps  lightly  on  to  the  stile,  poises 
on  the  top  step  a  moment,  turns  to  say  a  last  airy  word,  and 
overbalancing  her  portly  frame  comes  with  an  undesirable 
speed  to  the  grass  on  the  other  side. 

"  Oh  1  are  you  hurt  ?  "  cries  Evelyn  in  an  agony. 

"  Not  a  bit — not  a  bit !  "  exclaims  she,  scrambling  to  her 
feet  once  more.  "  But  my  good  gown,  my  dear  " — making 
anxious  examination  of  it  over  her  shoulders  at  the  imminent 
risk  of  giving  herself  a  lasting  crick  in  her  neck — "what 
of  it  ?  Not  spoiled,  eh  ?  " 

"  Not  a  soil,"  says  Evelyn.  "  It  is  as  good  as  ever  it 
was,"  which,  after  all,  isn't  saying  much  for  it. 

Mrs.  Vaudrey,  comforted,  however,  goes  on  her  way  re> 
joicing,  with  a  last  buoyant  wave  of  her  hand. 


fa  A  LIFE'S  EEMORS3. 

Evelyn,  having  watched  her  cross  the  next  field — with  the 
beloved  skirts  so  high  upheld  as  to  show  a  considerable 
amount  of  ankles  of  truly  noble  proportions — and  tackle 
the  second  stile  without  further  mishap,  resumes  her  own 
way. 

As  she  does  so,  a  quick  sigh  escapes  her.  She  is  con- 
scious too  of  a  feeling  of  irritation  difficult  of  suppression. 
What  had  Mrs.  Vaudrey  meant  by  calling  her  a  hypocrite? 
What  had  she  to  do  with  the  failure  or  success  of  ,Lady 
Stamer's  scheme  for  her  son's  aggrandizement  ?  If  she 

thought she  checks  herself  here,  and  an  angry,  offended 

blush  dyes  her  face.  Why  should  she  have  thought  it? 
Why  should  any  one  dare  to  think  it  ?  Whit  was  Eaton  to 
her  but  an  old  friend — a  brother  almost  ?  But  Mrs.  Vau- 
drey, in  spite  of  her  undeniable  good  birth,  was  always  a 
little  odd — a  little  vulgar.  Nobody  should  mind  anything 
she  said.  And  after  all,  what  did  it  matter  ? 

Her  cheeks  are  still  very  hot.  however,  when  just  at  her 
own  gate  she  meets  the  vicar,  swinging  along  in  that  strange 
loose  way  of  his,  with  his  chin  in  the  air,  and  his  eyes 
dreaming — of  heaven,  perhaps. 

"  You — you,  my  dear — you  !  "  says  he,  in  the  queer  con- 
fused way  natural  to  him,  and  that  is  always  so  suggestive 
of  a  person  just  roused  from  some  engrossing  thoughts. 

"Yes.  I  am  only  now  returning  from  the  garden-party 
at  Parklands,"  says  she,  smiling  at  him.  "  You  were  not 
there  ?  " 

"  No,  no.  I  could  not  manage  it,"  says  the  vicar,  patting 
the  little  hand  he  holds.  "  It  was  pleasant  ?  You  enjoyed 
yourself?  Ah,  right — right.  Pleasure  is  always  for  the 
young." 

"  It  is  for  you  too — if  you  would  have  it,"  says  she  almost 
reproachfully. 

"  Why,  so  I  do  have  it,"  says  he,  as  if  surprised  at  her 
words.  "  I  am  specially  happy  to-day,  for  example,  though 
I  did  not  go  to  Lady  Stamer's  ff.te.  You  know  old  Beity 
Whinsdale  ?  Weil,  then,  you  know  too  how  hard  she  is  to — 

to  influence ;  but  to-day ''  he  stops,  and  looks  at  Evelyn 

with  an  almost  eager  light  in  his  large  eyes — "  to-day,  I 
think  she/i?// — at  last,"  says  he,  with  a  long  sigh  of  thank- 
fulness, 

It  is  quite  impossible  for  Evelyn,  who  knows  the  man 
*~and  Betty — not  to  wonder  secretly  what  he  has  given 


A  LIFE'S  BEMORSB.  73 

tlie  old  woman  to-day,  Betty's  pieties  being  lax  or  strong 
according  to  the  value  of  the  gifts  bestowed.  With  that 
last  conversation  with  Mrs.  Vaudrey  still  fresh  within  her 
mind,  she  is  conscious  of  casting  a  furtive  glance  at  his 
clothing,  and  it  is  with  a  positive  feeling  of  relief  that  she 
sees  that  all  his  garments  are  upon  him. 

"  That  has  made  you  happy,"  says  she  softly.  Not  for 
worlds  would  she  have  cast  a  doubt  on  Betty's  purity  of 
purpose. 

"  That,  and  other  things.  I  went  from  her  to  Hodgson's, 
and  there — found  a  regular  transformation  scene.  You 
know  who  has  been  at  work  in  this  parish  of  late,  don't  you, 
Evelyn  ?  You  know  Mr.  Crawford  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Is  it  he " 

"  He  is  a  good  man,"  says  the  vicar,  interrupting  her  with 
some  glad  excitement.  "He  is  indeed  a  Chiistian,  both  in 
thought  and  act.  His  charity  is  unbounded.  Those  peo- 
ple were  reduced  to  the  verge  of  starvation — all  I  could  do 
for  them  would  not  have  staved  off  the  evil  hour  much 
longer — when  he,  Mr.  Crawford,  came  to  the  rescue. 
Without  a  word  to  any  man  he  set  them  up  again.  I  was 
never  so  astonished  as  when  I  arrived  at  their  miserable 
home.  I — I  confess  to  you,  my  dear  girl,  that  it  was  with 
lagging  steps  I  drew  near  to  it,  for  I  hadn't  a  penny  in  my 
pocket,  and  what  words,  even  if  taken  from  sacred  writ,  can 
comfort  the  poor  soul  whose  stomach  is  empty?  Well, 
when  I  entered,  there  was  the  fire  burning,  a  pot  boiling  on 
it,  out  of  which  came  a  goodly  steam — a  handsome  one,  I 
can  tell  you,"  says  the  vicar,  with  an  irrepressible  laugh, 
"  and  the  children  all  clustered  round  the  fire,  in  happy 
expectation,  and  the  mother,  poor  creature,  looking  ten 
years  younger.  'Who  h'ad  done  it?'  I  asked.  'Mr.  Craw- 
ford ! '  And  ail  through  a  word  of  mine  let  fall  to  him  last 
week.  He  has  taken  on  Hodgson,  too,  at  regular  wages, 
and  is  giving  him  work  suJted  to  his  weak  state  of  health. 
Truly,"  says  Mr.  Vaudrey,  the  tears  rising  in  his  eyes,  "  God 
did  well  when  he  made  Crawford  wealthy." 

"  Oh  how  good  it  was  of  him  !  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I 
like  him,"  says  Evelyn  with  a  little  burst  of  enthusiasm. 

"  He  has  &  heart  above  the  average.  He  not  only  gives, 
but  he  loves  giving.  He  is  such  a  help  to  me  as  I  never 
hoped  to  find.  Sir  Bertram  is  very  good,  but  he  doesn't 
enter  into  it  with  me.  This  man  has  sympathy,"  says  the 


74  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

poor  vicar  gratefully,  thinking  of  all  the  years  he  nas  toiled 
during  which  no  man  cared  whether  he  gained  a  soul  or 
lost  it.  "  He  has  the  true  spirit.  He  gives  with  both  hands, 
and  with  all  his  heart.  He  seems  to  long  to  give." 

"  I  know,"  says  Evelyn.  "Once  or  twice  it  has  occurred 
to  me  that  he  must  have  some  reason  for  his  great  gener- 
osity towards  the  poor  and  suffering.  Could  he  ever  have 
been  poor  himself — and  wanted  help  and  love  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.  That  idea  didn't  suggest  itself  to  me, 
But  rather  that  perhaps  some  one  belonging  to  him — his 
father,  it  might  be — had  committed  some  wrong,  and  he  was 
trying  to  expiate  it.  As  for  himself,  I  believe  he  is  incap- 
able of  wronging  any  one." 

"  Quite,"  says  Evelyn  with  conviction.  "  His  face  is  both 
gentle  and  sad.  Mr.  Vaudrey,  did  you  ever  see  so  sad  a 
face?  He  makes  me  always  feel  so  dreadfully  sorry  for 
him.  And  if  he  is  expiating  the  sins  of  others,  how  dear  of 
him.  How  few  men  care  for  anything  that  doesn't  concern 
themselves." 

"  Well,  it  is  all  mere  surmise,"  says  the  vicar.  "  And  why 
should  we  not  bJieve  that  his  unbounded  charities  arise 
from  nothing  but  a  sincere  desire  to  follow  the  steps  of  his 
Redeemer  ?  I  must  think  he  loves  the  poor,  so  zealous  is 
he  for  their  welfare.  Those  Meesons,  now — he  asked  me 
about  them,  and  now,  thanks  to  him,  they  too  are  in  a  fair 
way  towards  prosperity,  and  that  boy  of  theirs  recovering 
rapidly." 

"Tom  Meeson?" 

"  Yes.  We  thought  there  was  no  hope.  But  Mr.  Craw- 
ford, when  he  had  been  to  see  him  once  or  twice,  did  not 
agree  wkh  me.  It  appears  he  has  dabbled  in  medicine. 
And  he  would  not  hear  of  having  the  dispensary  doctor. 
He  sent  the  whole  way  to  Darlton  for  Jones — you  know 
how  successful  Jones  is ;  and  indeed  he  has  done  wonders 
for  Tom." 

"  His  coming  here  has  been  a  great  comfort  to  you," 
says  Evelyn,  looking  with  pleasure  at  the  vicar's  brilliant 
eyes,  now  so  full  of  gladness.  His  worn  face  is  lighted  up ; 
his  whole  person  seems  to  have  taken  on  a  new  sense  of 
satisfaction  and  certain  hope  for  the  future.  It  is  char- 
acteristic of  the  man  that  all  this  new-found  delight  is  not 
for  himself  but  for  his  poor. 

"It is  the  relief,"  says  he  simply.    "The  freedom  from 


A  LIFE'S  EEMORSE.  7J 

The  knowledge  that  there  is  some  one  I  can  rely  upon 
to  help  me,  when  times  are  bad.  Yes,  Crawford  is  a  good 
man,  and  an  honest  friend  to  the  poor.  He  not  only  desires 
to  help  them,  but  he  feels  for  them.  Good-bye,  my  dear. 
God  bless  you  !  I'm  in  a  hurry  home.  To  confess  the  truth 
to  you,  I'm  starving  with  hunger." 

Here  he  laughs  gaily,  and  swings  away  down  the  road, 
to  stop  a  moment  after  to  call  back  to  her :  "  Your  father  ? 
your  mother  ?  quite  well,  I  hope  ?  " 

Years  have  not  compelled  him  to  remember  that  the 
colonel  is  only  her  uncle  and  Mrs.  D'Arcy  her  aunt. 

"  Quite  well,  thank  you,"  returns  Evelyn  with  a  little  nod, 
Then  he  turns  the  corner  and  is  gone. 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

IT  is  the  next  morning,  and  Lady  Stamer's  day  at  fiome.' 
She  has  consented  to  sacrifice  one  day  in  the  week  to  her 
acquaintances,  but  woe  and  betide  those,  who,  coming  to 
her  on  that  special  afternoon,  are  considered  by  her  outside 
the  pale  of  society.  Just  at  first  the  doctor's  wife  and  the 
country  attorney's  had  ventured  to  present  themselves  on 
the  day  on  which  she  has  declared  herself  ready  and  willing 
to  receive  all  visitors.  They  came  once — they  came  never 
again.  Lady  Stamer  in  one  lesson  gave  them  their  level — • 
in  plain  language  she  taught  them  in  a  single  interview  how 
altogether  beneath  notice  they  were,  and  how  many  fathoms 
deep  they  lay  under  that  delectable  social  circle  of  which 
she  reigned  the  queen.  To  achieve  this  she  had  to  be  ex- 
cessively rude,  which,  of  course,  considering  her  birth,  must, 
or  at  all  events  ought,  to  have  been  abhorrent  to  her.  She 
must  have  had  a  strong  mind,  however,  as  she  betrayed  no 
symptoms  of  remorse,  then,  or  afterwards. 

In  Fenton  she  was  in  effect  the  ruler  of  society,  as  there 
was  no  resident  lord  within  forty  miles  of  it ;  and  the  one 
or  two  other  baronets  who  had  places  in  the  neighbourhood 
were  by  no  means  so  well  off  as  Sir  Bertram. 

In  the  beginning,  after  his  father's  death,  she  had  affected 
to  withdraw  from  all  supervision  of  the  household,  but  a 
Word  from  Sir  Bertram  had  been  sufficient  to  reinstate  her 
in  all  he/  old  privileges.  As  &  fact  she  now  ruled  Parklands 


y6  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

with  a  rod  of  Iron — the  very  owner  of  it  coming  sometimes 
beneath  the  despotic  government  that  was  detested  by  all 
who  lived  beneath  it. 

The  owner  of  this  lovely  estate  was,  however— odd  to  say 
— the  favourite  with  his  mother.  For  Eaton,  the  second 
son,  she  had  hardly  ever  felt  those  maternal  pangs  that  as 
a  rule  accompany  such  love.  When  the  latter  was  born  she 
felt  he  was  one  too  many.  Her  ambition  was  her  strongest 
point,  and  having  contracted  an  heir  to  Parklands,  she  had 
felt  that  anything  further  was  worse  than  useless — was  in 
effect  a  drain  upon  the  resources  that  should  have  gone  in 
their  entirety  to  feed  the  fortunes  of  the  future  master  of 
the  place.  It  was  fortunate  that  no  other  children  blessed, 
or  as  she  would  have  thought  marred,  her  married  lot ;  the 
small  amount  of  attention  she  bestowed  upon  her  second 
child  would  probably  have  lessened  into  absolute  neglect  of 
a  third  or  fourth.  She  was  indeed  one  of  those  many 
women  whom  nature  meant  to  be  childless ;  she  had  neither 
the  love  to  give  them  nor  the  knowledge  that  such  love 
should  be  given.  But  nature  sometimes  is  at  fault. 

By  this  time  the  morning  has  deepened  into  noon.  It  is 
well  into  June  now,  and  all  the  loveliest  flowers  of  England 
are  blooming  in  the  pretty  beds  that  Lady  Stamer  has  had 
laid  out  beneath  the  drawing-room  windows.  These  glowing 
flowers  are  even  the  lovelier  because  of  the  growth  of  their 
later  sisters  beside  them — the  now  half- budding  plants 
that  in  the  near  July  will  send  their  fragrance  up  to  heaven. 
It  is  as  though  we  have  now  before  us,  clasped  together, 
the  life  that  is  almost  over  and  the  life  to  come.  Despair 
and  hope  in  one  breath  ! 

"Yes,  I  think  the  duchess  -was  pleased,"  says  Lady 
Stamer  complacently,  with  a  sort  of  after-glow  that  heightens 
her  smile  and  her  colour,  but  which  she  fondly  believes  is 
unknown  to  any  one.  "  It  was  so  perfect  a  day." 

"  Not  a  hitch,"  says  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  who  has  dropped  in, 
and  who,  however  martial  behind  her  back,  shows  only  a 
smothered  hostility  when  in  presence  of  Lady  Stamer— 
unless  indeed  occasion  calls  for  combat. 

"  I  meant  the  weather,"  says  Lady  Stamer.  She  stares 
at  Mrs.  Vaudrey  through  the  long-handled  pince-nez  that 
hangs  by  her  side. 

"  Well,  there's  often  a  hitch  in  the  weather,"  says  Mra» 
Vaudrey  aggressively. 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  77 

'  "Everybody  pTayed  very  well,  I  thought,"  says  Miss 
Vandeleur  pleasantly,  as  though  with  a  desire  to  put  an  end 
to  the  hostilities,  that  are  already  in  a  fair  way  to  make  open 
war. 

"Especially  Miss  D'Arcy,"  says  Bartholomew  Blount 
who  unfortunately  is  present.  If  he  is  the  possessor  of  any 
talent,  it  is  that  of  always  saying  the  right  thing  in  the  wrong 
place. 

"  A  little  wild  goat  like  that  would  be  sure  to  play  well," 
says  Lady  Stamer  with  the  keenest  contempt. 

"  And  what  do  you  say  to  Lady  Flora  Grant  ?  "  asks 
Miss  Vandeleur  good-humouredly.  "  She  cannot  certainly 
be  called  wild  in  any  sense  of  the  word,  and  yet  she  plays 
if  possible  better  than  Evelyn." 

"  Hardly  better,"  says  Captain  Stamer,  who  is  handing  a 
cup  of  tea  to  Marian  at  the  moment. 

"  Ah  !  you  are  a  partizan,"  says  she  in  a  low  tone,  glanc- 
ing up  at  him  with  a  smile.  He  shakes  his  head,  lifts  his 
brows  as  if  in  repudiation  of  the  idea,  yet  looks  distinctly 
pleaded  nevertheless.  Her  championship  of  Evelyn  at  the 
desired  moment  has  perhaps  made  him  feel,  if  possible, 
more  friendly  towards  her.  Poor  Evelyn,  whose  little  un- 
conventional ways  are  so  often  under  discussion. 

He  is  a  slightly-built  young  man,  of  good  height,  with 
his  head  well  set  upon  his  shoulders.  There  is  nothing 
very  special  about  him,  and  yet  there  is  hardly  an  acquaint- 
ance of  his  who  has  not  what  is  called  "  a  good  word  "  for 
him.  Some  little  virtue  he  has  about  him  that  renders  him 
popular  with  most  people — geniality  might  explain  it,  but 
genuineness  would  be  nearer  stilL  He  is  liked  because  men 
feel  that  when  he  betrays  a  liking  for  them  he  thoroughly 
means  it.  He  has  a  kindly  face,  open  eyes,  a  hearty  laugh- 
all  sure  passports  to  favour.  No  one  could  call  him  a 
beauty,  but  on  the  other  hand  no  one  would  certainly  ever 
call  him  anything  but  a  gentleman. 

"The  duchess's  house-party  threatens  to  be  rather  a 
medley,"  says  Lady  Stamer,  addressing  a  Mrs,  Coventry, 
the  wife  of  a  neighbouring  squire,  who  has  just  dropped  in. 
As  Miss  Coventry  has  been  one  of  those  invited  to  spend 
the  coming  week  at  the  Castle,  her  mother  does  not  take  this 
with  a  smiling  face. 

"You  mean ?"  says  she,  hesitating  purposely,  and 

looking  at  Lady  Stamer  through  half-closed  lids. 


7fc  A  LIFE'S 

"That  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  people  nave  been 
bidden,"  says  Lady  Stamer,  who  is  ignorant  of  Miss  Coven- 
try's invitation. 

"That  is  a  rather  pronounced  assertion,  don't  you 
think  ?  "  says  her  visitor  with  a  cold  smile.  "  You  of  course 
object  to  somebody  who  has  been  asked? " 

"To  several,"  says  Lady  Stamer,  with  a  shrug  of  hei 
shoulders. 

"The  duchess  will  be  sorry,  if  she  hears  it,"  says  Mrs, 
Vaudrey  with  a  light  laugh;  in  which,  after  the  faintest 
hesitation,  Mrs.  Coventry  joins.  The  latter  is  a  woman  of 
proportions  so  ample  that  one  wonders  how  she  has  so  bitter 
a  tongue. 

"  The  duchess  probably  will  hear  it,"  says  Lady  Stamer, 
looking  at  Mrs.  Vaudrey.  "  And  I  can  only  hope  so.  It 
will  help  her  to  make  no  such  foolish  mistakes  when  next 
she  comes  to  this  county.  I  hear  that  little  D'Arcy  girl  is 
one  of  the  fortunate  ones  invited  to  this  motley  gathering." 

"  Yes,"  says  Miss  Vandeleur  gently.  "  I  was  glad  about 
that.  It  will  be  such  a  change  for  her." 

"A  change  indeed,"  says  Lady  Stamer,  with  a  low,  in- 
solent laugh.  "  Eaton,  Marian  perhaps  will  take  some  more 
tea." 

"  I'm  getting  her  some,"  says  Sir  Bertram.  He  is  always 
so  silent  a  man  that  as  a  rule  everybody  looks  at  him  when 
he  does  speak.  He  is  a  good  deal  older  than  his  brother, 
who  is  just  twenty-seven,  and  is  so  tall,  and  so  broad  in 
proportion,  as  to  command  immediate  attention  into  what- 
soever room  he  may  enter. 

"Colonel  D'Arcy  is  charming,"  says  Mrs.  Coventry;  "I 
cannot  think  why  it  is  that  people  so  run  down  his 
daughter." 

"  His  niece,"  corrects  Mrs.  Vaudrey. 

"  Ah  !  is  it  so  ?    I  always  thought  she  was  his  daughter." 

"  They  intend  you  to  think  so,"  says  Lady  Stamer  mean- 
ingly. "  It  is  evident  that  they  all  wish  she  never  had  had 
a  father." 

*'  Oh,  I  see — something  unpleasant,  eh  ?  " 

"Very,  I  should  say.  If  you  even  mention  the  word 
'father'  before  the  girl,  they  all  redden  up,  and  throw  out 
signs  of  confusion.  Very  unpleasant, /should  call  it.  For- 
gery, I  should  imagine,  or  some  low  crime  like  that" 

^Surety  this  is  also  what  Mrs.  Coventry  has  just  now 


A  LIFE'S  EEMORSE.  79 

called  a  'rather  pronounced  assertion,' "  says  Mrs.  Vattdrey. 
"  Evelyn's  father  may  have  been  a  failure,  without  being 
exactly  a  criminal." 

"  He  may  ?  "  says  Lady  Stamer,  turning  aside  to  adjust 
the  rose  in  the  glass  near  her,  and  succeeding  in  giving 
everybody  present  the  impression  that  Mrs.  Vaudrey  is  a 
person  not  worth  arguing  with.  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  driven  to 
forget  her  politics  by  this  touch  of  insolence,  comes  boldly 
to  the  front. 

"  I  think  Evelyn  D'Arcy  as  charming  a  girl  as  I  know," 
says  she,  with  a  determination  that  makes  her  voice  over- 
loud. 

"Marian  will  take  that  as  a  compliment,"  says  Lady 
Stamer,  smiling. 

"  I  do,  indeed,"  says  Miss  Vandeleur,  in  her  gentle, 
dignified  way.  "I,  too,  think  Evelyn  very  charming." 

"  Charity  is  your  forte,  my  dear  Marian.  No  doubt  you 
will  have  your  reward  hereafter.  I  must  say,  in  espousing 
the  cause  you  have  now  in  hand,  you  are  earning  it 
honestly.  For  my  part,  what  any  one  can  see  in  that  little, 
wild,  untutored  creature  is  more  than  I  can  imagine.  Such 
manners ! " 

"  Very  pretty  manners,  surely,"  says  Miss  Vandeleur. 

"  By  pretty,  I  presume  you  mean  amusing,"  says  Lady 
Stamer.  "  Now-a-days,  everything  is  given  up  to  the 
clowns  of  society ;  we  bow  down  before  them.  '  Make  me 
laugh  and  I  will  place  you  on  a  pedestal/  is  the  cry.  Good 
manners,  respectability — all  give  place  to  this  insane  desire 
for  amusement.  To  my  thinking — old-fashioned,  no  doubt 
—it  seems  a  pity  that  some  one  does  not  take  that  girl  in 
Mnd  and  re- model  her  all  through." 

"  That  would  be  a  pity  indeed,"  says  Marian,  as  gently 
as  ever.  "  She  has  the  charm  of  being  quite  natural.  I 
hope  no  one  will  try  to  chain  her  down  to  bald  conven- 
tionalities. Such  a  little,  lovely  wild-flower  as  she  is,  with 
such  a  good  heart !  She  feels  for  all  the  world.  As  for  her 
manners,  we  speak  of  her  as  unconvisitional,  but  surely 
yesterday,  when  she  was  accepting  the  duchess's  invitation, 
her  words,  her  air  were  perfect." 

"You  should  have  been  a  man,  Marian,  and  a  philan- 
thropist, you  would  have  made  excellent  speeches,"  says 
Lady  JStamer,  without  acidity.  The  young  mistress  of 
Riversdale  is  a  person  to  be  cultivated,  encouraged— 


8o  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

annexed,  if  possible.  To  make  her  the  wife  of  her  sec.  ^ 
son,  Eaton,  is  at  present  Lady  Startler's  strongest  desire  j 
Mrs.  Vaudrey  had  not  been  romancing  when  she  gave 
Evelyn  D'Arcy  a  hint  of  this.  Had  either  Marian  or  Sir 
Bertram  betrayed  any  liking  for  each  other,  Lady  Stamer 
would  willingly  have  given  all  her  energies  to  the  furtherance 
of  a  marriage  between  them.  But  Sir  Bertram,  beyond  a 
common  civility,  has  been  to  Marian  as  he  has  been  to  all 
the  world  since  his  coming  of  age,  and  Marian  of  late  has; 
been  almost  cold  to  him. 

"tA  philanthropist,  Marian,  is  a  person  who  looks  down 
on  everybody  else,  and  makes  himself  whilst  on  earth  very 
unusually  unpleasant  to  all  his  neighbours.  He  generally 
lives  long,  and  is  very  little  regretted.  The  nation,  on  hit) 
death,  raises  a  hideous  monument  to  his  memory  as  a  token 
of  gratitude  to  the  Heaven  who  has  removed  him.  That's 
a  speech,  if  you  like,"  says  Mr.  Blount,  nodding  triumph- 
antly at  Lady  Stamer,  his  aunt.  He  is  perhaps  the  one 
person  in  the  world  who  finds  in  Lady  Stamer  a  large  fun$ 
of  amusement.  He  is  also,  perhaps,  the  one  person  in  the 
world  whose  quips  and  cranks  do  not  anfioy  her. 

"  In  spite  of  Bartholomew's  eloquence,  a  philanthropist's 
is  a  noble  cast,"  says  Lady  Stamer,  as  if  following  out  he« 
argument  with  Marian  ;  "  but  one  sometimes  productive  of 
little  good,  as  in  this  case,  my  dear  Marian.  You  may 
blind  yourself,  you  cannot  hope  to  blind  all  the  world." 

"  If  I'm  to  be  considered  part  of  the  world,  I  confess  I'm 
blind,  too,"  says  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  who  is  plainly  now  in  an 
antagonistic  spirit.  To  please  Lady  Stamer  is  generally 
her  object  when  setting  forth  to  pay  a  visit  to  her,  but  this 
noble  determination  wanes  and  waxes  feeble  towards  the 
termination  of  it.  "  I  think  that  child  delicious." 

"Ah!"  says  Lady  Stanler,  with  a  peculiar  air.  She 
utters  this  eloquent  monosyllable  with  a  sigh  of  deepest 
meaning ;  it  conveys  to  her  listeners  the  knowledge  thats 
so  far  as  she  can  judge,  Mrs.  Vaudrey's  opinion  is  beneatfe 
notice. 

"  You  don't  agree  with  me  ?  "  says  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  who, 
when  at  close  quarters,  is  not  afraid  of  her,  having  a  courage 
of  her  own.  She  even  manages  a  smile,  so  maddened  is  she 
by  the  other's  impertinence. 

"  No,"  says  Lady  Stamer,  in  a  stolid  tone  that  admits  of 
DO  compromise. 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  ft 

w  Good  ficif  ens !  we  are  in  for  it.  Any  short  cut  any- 
where  ?  "  asks  Mr.  Blount,  appealing  to  Sir  Bertram  in  a  low 
tone  full  of  heartfelt  despair.  Eaton,  who  is  standing  near 
his  brother,  answers  for  him. 

"  Not  one,"  says  he  ruthlessly.  "  We  are  all  going  to  see 
this  matter  through.  Hush!  the  opposition  is  making 
itself  heard." 

And,  indeed,  Mrs.  Vaudrey  is  doing  her  best. 

"  How  strange  it  is,"  says  she,  with  an  awful  sweetness* 
"that  some  people  never  can  get  accustomed  to  change— 
the  inevitable  change  that  makes  life  bearable.  A  certain 
groove  catches  them,  and  holds  them  prisoners  for  ever, 
They  have  known  such  and  such  people  all  their  lives,  and 
therefore  cannot  believe  that  such  and  such  other  people 
may  have  their  place  upon  the  same  earth  as  theirs.  I 
state  an  extreme  case,  but  extreme  cases  are  to  be  found. 
But  that  one  should  find  an  example  in  you,  dear  Lady 
Stamer,  is  indeed  a  blow." 

All  this  is  delivered  with  peculiar  sweetness. 

"  I  hope  it  won't  shatter  you,"  says  Lady  Stamer,  with  a 
benevolence  that  reduces  Mrs.  Vaudrey's  effort  in  that  line 
to  the  level  of  ordinary  good  nature. 

Mrs.  Coventry,  who  had  been  talking  to  Eaton  Stamer, 
but  who  is  now  unattached,  leans  back  in  her  fauteuil  and 
laughs  aloud. 

"  What  I  meant,"  says  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  whose  anger  is  now 
red  hot,  "  was  that  I  should  have  thought  you  more  liberal 
than  to  be  the  foe  of  a  little  girl  like  Evelyn.  You  may  not 
like  her,  but  you  might  at  least  condone  her  faults,  if  she 
has  any.  That  you.  should  publicly  condemn  her  has 
shocked  me ;  I  confess  I  expected  better  things  from  you." 

"  Yes  ?  "  says  Lady  Stamer  unmoved.  "  You  are  hopeful. 
Now  there  are  people  of  whom  /  never  expect  anything." 

"  The  colonel,  at  all  events,  is  a  jolly  old  soul — like  old 
King  Cole,"  interposes  Mr.  Blount,  who  is  great  in  nursery 
rhymes,  and  who  is  wise  enough  to  be  aware  that  there  are 
breakers  ahead.  He  says  this  with  the  kindly  intention  of 
leading  the  conversation  into  safer  waters.  It  is  a  truiy 
self-sacrificing  effort  on  his  part,  as  a  fracas  is  dear  to  his 
soul,  and  here  seems  as  pretty  an  opening  as  one  need  desire 
for  a  brisk  and  lively  fray.  He  is  indeed  only  led  into  these 
peaceablft  paths  because  of  the  sudden  anxious  light  that 
has  shown  itself  in  Eaton's  eyes.  He  crushes  his  longings, 


83  A  LIFE'S  REMORSK. 

therefore,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  In  spite  of  him,  he  hat, 
his  reward  for  his  self-denial. 

"  Colonel  D'Arcy  is  an  Irishman,"  says  Lady  Stamer ; 
she  might  have  spoken  volumes,  and  yet  said  less.  Her 
disgust  is  apparent  to  everybody. 

"  Well,  what  of  that  ?  "  says  Mrs.  Coventry,  settling  herself 
more  squarely  in  her  chair.  Her  mother  was  an  Irish- 
woman of  very  old  family,  and  Mrs.  Coventry  was  not  now 
going  to  be  ashamed  of  her.  She,  in  fact,  prided  herself  on 
the  fact  that  she  had  Celtic  blood  in  her  veins.  Two  or 
three  of  the  young  Coventrys  have  given  signs  of  genius, 
and  this  has  all  been  accredited  to  their  maternal  grand- 
mother. 

"  You  must  really  excuse  me  from  going  into  it,"  says 
Lady  Stamer  in  a  bored  tone.  She  draws  a  little.agold- 
topped  scent  bottle  towards  her,  and  unscrewing  the  stopper 
sniffs  at  it  plaintively. 

"  Oh  !  how  shockingly  illiberal,"  cries  Mrs.  Vaudrey, 
with  a  playfulness  that  is  only  skin  deep.  "  Now,  as  for 
me,  I  adore  the  poor  dear  Irish.  I  think  them  delightful. 
So  fresh,  don't  you  know,  so  inconsequent,  so  out-at- 
elbovvs " 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  that,"  says  Lady  Stamer,  with  a  lazy  move- 
ment of  her  fan.  "If  that  was  all,  one  might  condone 
their  faults.  One  is  accustomed  to  that  sort  of  thing.  One 
has  to  put  up  with  it  perpetually.  I  assure  you,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Vaudrey,  that  they  are  not  the  only  people  I  know 
who  are  '  out-at-elbows,'  as  you  so — er — so  very  feelingly 
describe  it." 

Every  one  in  the  room  regards  this  as  being  unpar- 
donable, the  Vaudreys  being  notori9usly  hard  up,  with- 
out the  remotest  chance  of  ever  being  less  so.  A  faint 
pink  tinge  creeps  into  Mrs.  Vaudrey's  sallow  cheek,  and 
Eaton  Stamer  seeing  it,  loses  his  temper. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

HE  comes  forward  from  behind  the  curtains  of  the  window, 
where  he  has  been  idly  playing  with  his  mother's  lap-dog  j 
he  is  a  trifle  paler  than  usual,  and  his  eyes  are  brilliant. 
"  How  paltry  a  thing  it  is,  this  everlasting  denunciation 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  83 

of  the  '  poor*  man,"  says  he  with  a  sneer.  He  addresses  ne 
one  in  particular,  but  for  a  second  he  lets  his  eye  rest  on  his 
mother.  "  What  can  money  have  to  do  with  the  man  him* 
self  ?  It  can  neither  lift  nor  lower  his  morality.  There  is 
something  vulgar  in  the  dislike  to  poverty  that  some  people 
profess.  Money  is  not  everything.  Heaven  has  granted 
to  the  comparative  poor  ones  of  society,  many  compensa- 
tions. The  most  charming  people  I  have  known  have  not 
been  amongst  the  merchant  princes  of  the  world.  They 
have  had  but  light  acquaintance  with  purple  and  fine  linen, 
but  they  have  had  in  exchange  for  that  goodly  raiment, 
kind  hearts  and  perfect  manners — advantages  that  many 
rich  friends  of  mine  do  not  possess." 

He  has  been  pulling  the  little  dog's  ears  all  the  time  he 
has  been  speaking,  and  the  little  creature  has  been  making 
vigorous  efforts  to  kiss  him  in  return.  Now  he  drops  it 
without  a  word  of  warning  into  Mrs.  Vaudrey's  lap,  who 
gives  a  jump,  and  says,  "  Oh,  my  ! "  as  naturally  as  possible. 

This  outburst  of  his  has  been  regarded  by  his  mother, 
and  justly,  as  a  direct  attack  upon  herself,  and  she  resents 
it  accordingly.  To  her  mind  it  had  been  provoked  by  that 
allusion  to  Colonel  D'Arcy  made  a  few  minutes  ago,  but  as 
a  fact,  it  was  her  unkind  allusion  to  the  Vaudreys'  poverty 
that  had  provoked  it.  It  was  Mrs.  Vaudrey's  part  he  had 
taken,  though  it  might  be  perhaps  a  question  as  to  whether 
he  would  have  been  so  ready  to  avenge  her,  had  the  D'Arcys* 
name  not  been  mentioned. 

Lady  Stamer's  cold  smile  has  followed  every  word  of  her 
son's  utterance.  She  has  seemed  even  to  admire  him.  It 
is  plain,  at  all  events,  that  he  has  amused  her.  If  he  had 
hoped  to  disconcert  her,  he  has  been  utterly  at  fault. 

"  Is  he  not  in  earnest  ? "  says  she,  turning  to  Mrs. 
Coventry  with  quite  a  glowing  smile  for  her.  "  Is  he  not 
quite  like  one  of  his  own  enchanting  beggars,  whom  he  has 
just  been  sketching  to  us,  with  so  able  a  tongue,  when  he 
thus  lets  himself  go  ?  My  dear  Eaton,  this  is  a  surprise 
— a  most  gratifying  one.  You  are  generally  so  silent,  when 
with  me  at  all  events,  that  I  had  no  idea  you  could  be  so 
eloquent.  And  all  about  nothing  too,  that  is  the  chi^ 
charm,  the  real  cleverness  of  it.  Now  if  you  took  a  sub- 
ject of  burning  moment  in  hand " 

"  If  he  went  into  Parliament,"  suggests  Mrs.  Coventry, 
smiling  at  him. 


§4  A  LIPE'S  BEMOESB. 

"True.  There  is  no  reason  why  he  should  not,  some 
day.  You  really  should  think  of  it,  my  dear  Eaton.  To 
be  able  to  '  orate '  as  you  do  (to  use  an  American  word), 
without  a  second's  preparation,  is  to  be  indeed  gifted.  You 
are  nearly  as  eloquent  as  Marian ;  that  should  be  a  bond 
between  you.  If  ever  he  goes  into  Parliament,  Marian,  you, 
as  an  old  friend,  must  promise  to  help  him  with  his  address 
to  his  constituents." 

"  Smart,"  says  Mrs.  Vaudrey  to  herself,  "  but  not  smart 
enough.  He  will  not  rn^rry  Marian." 

"  A  poor  help,"  says  Miss  Vandeleur,  smiling. 

"An  excellent  one,  I  should  say,  and  he  too,  unless  his 
judgment  is  warped  beyond  redemption.  But  about  the 
D'Arcys ;  we  were  talking  of  Colonel  D'Arcy,  were  we  not  ?  " 

She  has  deliberately  brought  up  the  subject  again,  know- 
ing that  Eaton  writhes  beneath  it,  for  one  thing  to  punish 
him  for  what  she  styles  his  insolence,  for  another  to  show 
him  that  she  will  not  be  put  down  by  him  or  any  other. 

"  Yes,  yes,  we  were,"  says  Mr.  Blount  mildly.  "  We 
were  all  agreeing,  I  think,  that  he  is  one  of  the  most  agreeable 
people  we  know." 

"  Were  we  ?  "  says  Lady  Stamer,  transfixing  him  with  her 
glasses.  "  Put  me  out  of  the  '  all '  please.  For  my  part,  I 
think  his  manners  and  those  of  his  family  generally,  leave  a 
great  deal  to  be  desired." 

"Now,  how?"  demands  Eaton,  who  has  perhaps  in- 
herited some  of  his  doggedness  from  her.  If  she  had 
thought  to  subdue  him,  she  too  has  been  mistaken. 

"Dear  Eaton,  I  am  not  arguing  with  you.  To  argue 
with  such  a  headstrong  person  is  to  know  fatigue.  I  was 
merely  making  a  remark  to  Mrs.  Coventry." 

"  Oh  !  as  for  me,"  says  Mrs.  Coventry  with  a  laugh,  "  I 
assure  you  I  like  the  colonel  immensely.  He  is  one  of  the 
very  few  people  with  whom  I  can  converse  for  half  an  hour 
without  being  bored  to  death." 

"You  are  fortunate,"  says  Lady  Stamer,  waving  her  fan 
slowly  to  and  fro,  and  pretending  to  suppress  a  very 
superior  smile. 

"  Still,  my  dear  mother,  you  have  not  mentioned  your 
objections  to  him,"  says  Eaton. 

"  Mrs.  Coventry  has  suggested  your  right  line  to  you, 
Eaton,"  says  Lady  Stamer  pleasantly.  "You  should  have 
been  an  M.P.  rather  than  a  soldier;  in  the  House  you 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  £5 

would  have  made  yourself  heard.  I  think  if  I  were  a 
betting  man  I  should  back  you  liberally  to  reduce  even 
Ihe  Irish  members  to  silence,  through  sheer  perseverance 
alone.  As  it  is,  you  are  completely  thrown  away." 

"But  about  Colonel  D'Arcy,"  says  her  son,  with  that 
persistency  that  has  not  endeared  him  to  her.  "  You  object 
to  him.  Why  ?  " 

"  For  mnny  reasons.  For  every  reason,"  with  a  touch  of  the 
temper  that  has  hitherto  been  rigorously  kept  under  control. 
"  He  is  a  person  impossible  to  place,  but  as  I  regard  him, 
he  is  positively  insufferable.  He  says  just  what  he  chooses 
about  most  things,  and  has  evidently  no  respect  of 
persons." 

"  By  which  you  mean  that  he  speaks  the  truth  in  season 
and  out  of  it.  A  curious  accusation  to  bring  against  a  son 
of  Erin,"  says  Eaton,  with  a  mirth  that  is  perhaps  a  trifle 
sardonic.  "  Where  was  he  born  then  that  he  never  came 
within  touch  of  his  Blarney  Stone  ?  " 

"  Where  indeed  !  I  am  not  his  keeper,"  says  Lady 
Stamer  as  pleasantly  as  ever,  and  as  #»pleasantly.  "  He 
may  have  travelled  all  over  the  known  globe,  so  far  as  I 
know.  What  I  do  know  is,  that  he  is  brusque  to  a 
singular  degree;  and  that  all  such  people  are  better  out 
of  society  than  in  it." 

"  What  on  earth  can  he  have  been  saying  about  you  ?  n 
says  Mrs.  Vaudrey.  "I  am  afraid  he  has  hopelessly 
offended  you — but  how  ?  It  must  have  been  inadvertently, 
at  all  events.  Perhaps  he  let  out  something  that  was  in  his 
mind  without  knowing  it."  This  is  highly  suggestive,  and 
leads  Lady  Stamer  into  even  a  more  indignant  frame  of 
mind. 

"Something  against  me? "  says  she  with  assumed  cheer- 
fulness. "  Oh,  that  would' be  too  amusing." 

"  It  might  be  amusing,  but  one  can't  tell.  Mistakes 
are  often  more  embarrassing  than  truths.  But  you  are  so 
clever,  you  ought  to  know.  Of  course  we  can't  know,  but 
now  if  you  were  a  person  who  could  be  rough,  or  proud, 
or  could  have  behaved  yourself  frowardly  towards  him  in 
any  way,  the  situation  might  be  understanded  of  the  people. 
As  it  is,  we  all  quite  know  how  immaculate  you  are,  and 
that  therefore  the  quarrel  cannot  have  been  of  your 
seeking." 

This  is  nearly  as  terrible  as  Lady  Stamer 's  descents  upon 


86  Ik 

her.  There  had  been  a  day  last  year  when  Lady  Stamer 
had  gone  to  a  local  concert  without  remembering  to  remove 
from  cheek  and  brow  the  tell-tale  powder  that  lay  thickly 
on  them.  It  cost  her  many  a  mauvais  quart  d'heure  after- 
wards, and  her  maid  an  excellent  place,  and  the  worst  of  it 
was,  that  not  even  these  trials  seemed  to  expiate  the  offence. 
It  was  not  forgotten.  Just  now  everybody  seems  to 
remember  the  little  folly  as  freshly  as  though  it  had 
happened  yesterday.  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  angered  by  that 
uncivil  allusion  to  her  domestic  difficulties,  has  avenged 
herself  to  a  very  satisfactory  extent. 

It  is  now  Lady  Stamer's  turn  to  colour,  slowly,  but 
perceptibly. 

"Certainly  not  of  mine ;  and  as  a  fact  there  is  no 
quarrel.  I  was  merely  saying  that  I  do  not  think  the 
D'Arcys  good  form.  As  for  the  girl,  she  is  only  a  horrid 
little  horse-breaker,  no  more." 

"  Something  more,  surely,"  says  Eaton,  who  has  grown 
rather  white.  "A  very  lovely  and  charming  girl,  for 
example." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Eaton,  as  for  you  ! "  says  Lady  Stamer 
with  a  shrug  and  a  badly-suppressed  bitterness  of  tone, 
"  we  cannot  expect  an  unbiassed  opinion  from  you  ;  we 
know  you  are  wedded  to  the  family." 

"Not  yet,  not  yet"  says  Mr.  Blount  jovially,  with  a 
loud  laugh,  for  which  witticism  he  is  rewarded  by  a  stony 
stare  from  both  mother  and  son. 

"  Some  more  tea,  Bartholomew  ?  "  says  Lady  Stamer,  in 
her  most  unpleasant  tone.  "  No  ?  Then  perhaps  you  will 
ring  for  Mrs.  Coventry's  carriage.  You  look,"  severely, 
"as  if  you  wanted  something  to  do.  So  sorry  you  must  go 
so  soon,"  to  Mrs.  Coventry.  "  We  hardly  see  anything  of 
you  now.  Good-bye.' 

The  others  being  prompt  to  follow  Mrs.  Coventry's  lead, 
the  drawing-room  at  Parklands  is  soon  deserted* 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  IT  was  absurd  your  inducing  me  to  accept  the  invitation 
to  the  Castle,"  says  Evelyn.  "You  must  have  known  I 
couldn't  go,  after  all  Cinderellas  should  stay  at 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  87 

not  aspire  to  duchesses  and  such  fal-lals.  The  sober 
walks  of  life  are  for  them." 

She  is  evidently  in  the  last  stage  of  depression.  Sitting 
on  a  box  that  does  duty  for  a  chair,  she  looks  up  at  Miss 
Vandeleur,  with  reproach  in  her  eyes.  Miss  Vandeleur  is 
sitting  on  the  only  available  chair  in  Evelyn's  bed-room  ; 
the  other  is  sufficiently  far  gone  in  the  disease  called  old 
age,  to  be  found  out  by  the  most  casual  observer.  It  is 
indeed  a  rather  decrepit  room  altogether.  The  little  iron 
bedstead  would  have  given  way  long  ago  if  any  other  but 
the  slender  form  of  its  owner  had  stepped  into  it.  The 
looking-glass  is  ridiculously  small,  and  tremulous  at  the 
hinges.  The  dressing-table  is  propped  against  the  wall ;  the 
old  wardrobe  has  a  lock  that  would  defy  the  ingenuity  of 
any  one  except  Evelyn  to  open  or  shut  it.  Everything  is, 
however,  scrupulously  clean,  and  some  flowers  give  it  a 
friendly  look.  Its  poor  little  mistress,  looking  the  picture 
of  despair,  turns  her  eyes  away  from  her  visitor,  and  gives 
way  to  a  deep  sigh. 

"  You  ibrget  Cinderella  changed  her  whole  life  by  going 
to  a  ball,  given  not  by  a  duchess,  but  by  a  prince,"  says 
Marian  gaily.  "  I  have  set  my  heart  on  your  having  one 
good  week." 

"Well,  but  how?  Do  you  think  I  am  going  in  these 
rags  ? "  pulling  out  a  bit  of  her  much-washed  cotton  frock, 
with  a  disgusted  air.  "  To  be  laughed  at  by  all  the  grandees. 
Not  likely  1  And  I  could  not  ask  the  colonel  for  money 
just  now." 

"No?" 

"  Oh  no  !  I  haven't  said  a  word  to  any  one,"  lowering 
her  voice,  "  but  of  late  he  has  seemed  terribly  depressed. 
Not  before  people,  you  will  understand,  but  at  home-~ 
with  us.  Both  Jimmy  and  I  have  noticed  it.  Do  you  know 
he  has  grown  quile  irritable  ?  He,  who  used  to  have  such 
a  lovely  temper." 

"  But  how  do  you  account  for  it  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  sure  about  it,"  hesitating,  "  but  I  think  it  is 
something  about  money," 

Miss  Vandeleur  makes  an  impatient  movement. 

"  It  always  is,"  she  says. 

"  I  can't  quite  make  it  out,"  says  Evelyn  in  a  puzzled 
way,  a  frown  wrinkling  her  smooth  forehead.  "  But  1 
think  he  gave  money  to  Major  Arthurs.  You  reraembev 


fS  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

him,  don't  you  ?  A  queer  sort  of  man  who  used  to  live 
down  at  that  house  just  outside  Fenton.  He  was  there 
all  last  autumn." 

"  Of  course  I  remember,"  gravely ;  "he  gave  him  money, 
you  say.  But  I  did  not  think  the  colonel  could — had—- 
that he " 

"  No,  he  couldn't,  of  course.  He  never  has  a  penny  to 
spare,  poor  darling ;  but  he  put  his  name  to  some  paper — " 

"  Oh  !  "  says  Miss  Vandcleur  ;  she  stops  short  and  looks 
at  Evelyn.  "  But  Major  Arthurs  we  always  thought  was  a 
man  who  had  plenty  of  money." 

"  The  colonel  thought  so  too,"  says  Evelyn  ruefully. 
"  He  doesn't  think  so  new.  At  all  events,  however  it  was, 
he  asked  the  colonel  to  lend  him  some  money,  and  the 
colonel  did  it.  Ke  can:t  say  no  to  any  one." 

"  A  great  pity.  He  backed  some  bills  for  him,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  is  it,"  eagerly ;  as  if  helped  out  of  a  difficulty. 
"  It  is  the  same  thing,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Worse,  far  worse  1 "  says  Miss  Vandeleur,  with  a  very 
concerned  air. 

"  Well,  that's  what  he  did,"  says  Evelyn. 

About  this  time  last  year,  or  perhaps  a  month  or  two  later, 
Major  Arthurs  had  dropped  down  upon  Fenton  as  if  from 
the  clouds. 

He  had,  however,  brought  with  him  a  considerable 
amount  of  information  about  himself,  and  references  to 
relations  or  friends  of  theirs  in  the  neighbourhood ;  to  say 
nothing  of  an  excellent  hunting  stud,  a  groom,  a  helper,  and 
all  the  usual  signs  of  being  comfortably  off,  if  not  actually 
wealthy. 

He  had  just  retired  from  the  army ;  why,  most  satisfac- 
torily explained.  He  had  distant  connections  who  were 
known,  by  name  at  least,  to  all  at  Fenton ;  perhaps  not 
sufficiently  well  known  to  be  put  down  on  their  correspon- 
dence list,  but  still  known  ;  and  after  all,  one  can  write  at 
any  moment  even  to  the  commonest  stranger,  and  get  an 
answer  too,  if  occasion  arises  for  it. 

He  was  a  youngish  man,  who  might  have  been  thirty  and 
probably  was  forty  ;  with  a  manner  so  gay,  so  insouciant^ 
so  genuine,  that  soon  he  was  a  general  favourite  in  Fenton. 

At  Parklands  he  had  been  made  specially  welcome,  his 
mother  (who  luckily  for  her  was  dead  for  many  years)  hav- 
ing beas  a  cousin  and  a  great  friend  of  Lady  Stauier's. 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  89 

To  Colonel  D'Arcy,  this  dropper  in  upon  his  stupidity 
had  been  a  perfect  godsend.  He  had  welcomed  him  as 
.such  after  a  first  delightful  interview,  during  which  Major 
Arthurs  had  displayed  such  a  knowledge  of  horseflesh  as 
should  encharm  the  soul  of  any  Irishman. 

As  a  fact  he  really  did  understand  horses.  He  was,  too, 
a  genial  man  in  conversation ;  never  self-assertive,  never 
unduly  obstinate,  always  willing  to  concede  a  touchy  point ; 
always  ready  to  smooth  the  angularity  of  a  troublesome 
corner.  He  was  indeed  of  so  gay  and  of  so  harmonious  a 
disposition  that  rich  and  poor  alike  paid  him  court;  and 
one  poor  Irishman  in  particular  was  brought  to  great  straits 
because  of  him. 

No  one  knew  how  it  began :  the  colonel  himself  being 
always  rather  hazy  about  it.  But  at  all  events  he  induced 
the  colonel  to  put  his  name  to  several  bills  for  him,  always 
protesting  in  his  lightest,  airiest  manner,  that  it  was  but  a 
matter  of  the  moment  only.  Indeed,  so  well  appointed 
was  the  well-connected  man  that  the  colonel  felt  the  sort  of 
worldly  pleasure  in  helping  the  rich  that  we  all  do. 

The  last  bill  had  been  signed  in  January,  a  six  months' 
bill,  and  almost  directly  afterwards  the  genial  man  had  dis- 
appeared. He  had  bidden  the  neighbourhood  generally  a 
good-bye  for  a  week  or  two.  He  was  going  to  London  on 
Friday — could  he  do  any  commissions  ?  He  would  be  back 
on  Monday.  This  to  the  women.  He  had  even  pressed 
the  colonel  to  come  up  to  town  with  him,  knowing,  perhaps, 
that  the  colonel  never  had  money  to  fritter  away  upon  trips 
of  any  sort. 

He  had  gone  to  London — or  to  the  other  place — but  he 
had  certainly  not  come  back  on  Friday,  or  any  other  day. 
Indeed  he  never  came  back  at  all. 

Though  to  show  he  was  not  a  common  villain  who  might 
be  a  disgrace  to  this  mild  book,  let  it  be  known  at  once 
that  his  references  were  quite  correct ;  that  he  was  related 
to  so  and  so  ;  that  his  mother  was  Lady  Stamer's  cousin  $ 
but  that,  in  spite  of  all  these  claims  to  respectability,  he  was 
an  unmitigated  blackguard,  who  had  been  kicked  out  of  the 
army  and  every  club  to  which  he  had  belonged  for  cheating ; 
and  was  now  merely  a  beast  of  prey,  roaming  the  earth  in 
search  of  some  such  easy  prey  as  Colonel  D'Arcy. 
i  All  this  might  have  been  matter  of  comment,  and  might 
bave  prevented  many  important  and  sad  events  in  Fenton, 


&  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

if  som»»&*3(y  had  taken  the  precaution  to  write  a  line  or  two 
about  him  to  those  people  whom  he  had,  with  the  boldness 
of  the  successful  swindler,  given  as  his  referees. 

The  colonel  was  the  victim  ;  but  for  a  long  time  he  had 
remained  blin£  to  his  situation.  He  had  indeed  thought 
nothing  of  the  unpleasant  position  in  which  he  stood,  until 
a  note  from  tb/i  manager  of  the  local  bank,  saying  the  first 
bill  was  due,  roused  within  him  a  faint  touch  of  anxiety  as  to 
where  Arthw;  was.  He  wrote  to  the  club  address  that 
Arthurs  had  fjiven  him,  but  got  no  answer.  He  wrote  again, 
and  was  infcvmed  that  Major  Arthurs  had  taken  his  name 
off  the  books  two  years  ago.  He  then  wrote  to  his  home 
address,  where  the  man's  father  was  popularly  supposed  to 
be  living,  and  received  in  return  a  post-card  from  the  house- 
keeper, to  say  Major  Arthurs  had  not  been  there  for  eighteen 
months,  and  that  she  had  no  idea  where  he  was  at  present. 

All  this  was  very  discouraging.  Colonel  D'Arcy  was  con- 
scious of  a  slight  feeling  of  alarm,  but  disliking  unpleasant 
sensations  of  all  sorts  thrust  it  determinedly  into  the  back- 
ground. He  took  the  whole  affair  indeed  with  extraordinary 
phlegm,  until  the  second  bill  fell  due,  and  was  forthwith 
protested. 

Then  a  doubt  that  Arthurs  must  be  dead,  first  filled  his 
breast,  and  that,  if  so,  it  might  prove  awkward  for  him — 
Colonel  D'Arcy.  It  was  not  indeed  until  his  wife,  who 
sometimes  had  glimpses  of  common  sense,  suggested  to 
him  that,  possibly  Arthurs  might  have  been  an  accomplished 
swindler  that  the  full  meaning  of  the  injury  that  had  been 
done  him  awoke  within  his  breast. 

If  this  thing  was  true — why,  then He  could  not 

follow  out  the  thought ;  in  one  little  second,  it  seemed  to 
him,  he  was  by  many  years  an  older  man  ;  but  he  had  to 
face  it  out  Why,  then  —he  was  a  pauper,  and  his  children 
beggars  ! 

It  was  a  bitter  moment.  All  that  he  had  would  scarcely 
suffice  to  meet  the  unjust  debt.  His  house,  his  few  acres, 
his  furniture,  his  horses — that  were  his  principal  means  of 
living — that  last  young  colt,  that  looked  as  if  he  was  capable 
of  so  many  things — all  must  go.  His  heart  contracted  with 
a  cruel  pang  as  he  thought  of  that  young  colt. 

Yet  it,  and  every  one  of  his  worldly  possessions,  would 
scarcely  suffice  to  satisfy  this  claim  upon  him.  Two  thou- 
sand founds  /  Dropping  into  a  chair  he  wondered  vaguely 


A  LIFE'S  REMOHSE.  9! 

how  Tie  could  ever  have  been  capable  of  letting  himself  in 
for  so  outrageous  a  piece  of  folly. 

"  Evelyn,"  says  Miss  Vandeleur,  getting  up  from  the 
reliable  chair  and  seating  herself  on  the  half  of  Evelyn's 
box,  "it  is,  as  you  say,  impossible  that  you  should  now 
trouble  your  uncle  about  money  matters.  It  is  equally 
impossible  that  you  should  refuse  the  duchess's  invitation. 
In  fact  you  must  go  to  the  Castle,  and  as  for  your  clothes, 
I'll  see  about  that." 

"  Oh,  no,"  flushing  hotly. 

"  Don't  try  to  be  conventional,"  says  Miss  Vandeleur 
calmly.  "  There  is  no  necessity  for  it,  between  you  and 
me,  and  I  know  all  you  think  you  ought  to  say,  and  the 
absurdity  of  it.  I  am  as  fond  of  you  as  if  you  were  my 
sister,  and  if  I  have  money  and  you  haven't,  there  is  no 
reason  on  earth  why  I  shouldn't  give  you  some  of  mine.  If 
you  were  rich  and  I  was  poor,  I  shouldn't  hesitate  for  a 
moment  to " 

"Say  no  to  me  for  my  kind  offer,"  interrupts  Evelyn, 
with  a  little  curious  laugh. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  be  troublesome  about  this 
matter,  Evelyn,"  says  Miss  Vandeleur  in  a  rather  vexed  tone. 
"  Supposed  dignity  very  often  comes  under  the  head  of 
folly.  If  I  thought  you  should  not  accept  my  offer,  believe 
me,  I  should  never  have  made  it ;  and,"  with  a  milder 
glance,  "I  thottght\\e  were  such  great  friends." 

"So  we  are;  so  we  are,"  cries  Evelyn,  softened  at  once 
by  the  reproach  in  her  friend's  eyes.  "  And  I  shouldn't 
mind  a  bit  letting  you  give  me  a  frock,  only — there's  the 
colonel,  you  see — he  would  not  like  it  either." 

The  "  either  "  is  a  slip,  and  tells  her  real  feelings. 

"  As  little  as  you  would,  you  mean." 

"  I  don't  think  I  meant  that,"  restlessly. 

"  No  ? "  wisely  refraining  from  pressing  this  point. 
**Then,  if  it  is  only  the  colonel — why  should  he  know?  " 

"  It  might  be  hidden  from  him,  of  course,"  with  down- 
cast eyes  and  dejected  mien.  "  But — I  should  feel  so 
horrid  about  keeping  it  secret  from  him  ;  you  see,  here,  in 
this  house,  we  tell  each  other  everything." 

"A  well-regulated  household!"  says  Marian  laughing. 
"  Nonsense,  however !  If  it  comes  to  that,  /'//  tell  the 
colonel  all  about  it,  and  you'll  see  he  will  let  me  have  my 
own  way  in  spite  of  you."  She  turns  the  girl's  face 


9a  A  LIFE'S  KEMORSE. 

towards  hers  and  scans  it  with  kindly  scrutiny.  "I  should 
have  more  trouble  to  gain  your  consent  to  my  scheme  than 
the  colonel's,"  says  she  shrewdly. 

"  Oh,  how  you  misjudge  me,"  says  Evelyn,  with  a  dis- 
graceful, but  useless,  attempt  at  subterfuge ;  she  draws  her 
face  away  from  the  other's  gentle  touch,  and  smiles  nervously. 
Miss  Vandeleur,  as  if  a  liltle  puzzled,  waits  a  minute  or  so, 
and  then  slightly  changes  the  conversation. 

"  I  shall  feel  absolutely  friendless  if  you  won't  come/' 
she  says.  "  I  shall  be  almost  alone,  and  duchesses,  being 
rare,  are  oppressive.  If  we  were  together,  we  might  enjoy 
ourselves,  and  Eaton  Stamer  is  to  be  there  and  his  brother." 
She  throws  in  the  brother  as  though  Sir  Bertram  is  a  person 
of  small  account. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  says  Evelyn.  She  is  twisting  her  hand- 
kerchief round  and  round  her  first  finger  as  if  her  whole 
soul  is  bent  on  bandaging  that  slender  member.  But 
now,  quite  suddenly,  she  lifts  her  head  and  looks  at 
Marian. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  heard  a  few  days  ago  ?  "  says  she, 
speaking  with  singular  distinctness.  "  That  Lady  Stamer  is 
very  anxious  that  you  should  marry  Eaton." 

"  Is  she  ?  "  says  Miss  Vandeleur.  She  bursts  out  laugh- 
ing, yet  a  crimson  flush  dyes  her  cheek'and  brow.  "  People 
often  show  most  anxiety  about  things  that  they  cannot 
bring  to  pass." 

"  You  mean ?  "  leaning  forward. 

"  That  Eaton  will  not  ask  me  to  marry  him.** 

"  Only  that  ?  " 

"  Why — if  you  will  have  it,"  says  Marian,  laughing  again— 
"  though  it  is  a  thing  a  woman  should  not  say  until  the 
opportunity  has  been  given  her  of  proving  the  truth  of  her 
words — I  certainly  do  not  want  to  marry  Eaton." 

"Ah!"  says  the  girl  quickly.  Then — as  if  crushed  by 
some  fear,  she  lets  her  eyes  fall,  and  her  fingers  fasten 
closely  in  the  handkerchief  that  has  now  become  a  mere 
little  round  ball.  "  It — I  thought  it  would  have  been  rather 
a  nice  marriage,"  says  she  confusedly. 

"  According  to  your  own  showing,  you  and  Lady  Stamer 
are  for  once  agreed,"  says  Marian  lightly.  She  understands  it 
all  quite  well  now,  and  resolves  to  return  to  her  effort  to  take 
the  girl  with  her  to  the  Castle.  "  I  am  sorry  I  must  disap- 
point all  your  hopes.  But  then — you  have  disappointed 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  93 

mine.     Evelyn,  'change  your  mind.     I  am  sure  you  would 
enjoy  your  week  at  the  Castle." 

"  Oh,  I  should  like  it,"  her  face  now  bright  and  irreso- 
lute. "  But — would  there  be  time  ?  " 

"  To  get  a  frock  or  two  ?  Of  course  !  I  could  telegraph 
to  town.  We  could  get  down  the  skirts,  ready  made,  from 
Black's,  and  you  know  Marsden  is  excellent  so  far  as  a  body 
goes.  She  will  fit  you  and  follow  out  all  our  directions.  It  is 
now"- —  glancing  at  her  watch — "two  o'clock.  If  I  telegraph 
at  once  we  could  get  them  down  by  the  last  train." 

"  Do  you  think  I  ought  to  go?"  says  Evelyn  still  hecitat- 
ing.  It  is  the  last  faint  protest,  and  is  altogether  different 
from  the  hesitation  of  a  while  ago. 

"Pouf!"  says  Marian  contemptuously.  "Get  up  and 
help  me  to  write  the  telegram ;  time  is  flying." 

"Oh  !  l'm--g!adl'm  going,"  cries  Evelyn  presently,  when 
a  messenger  has  been  dispatched  with  the  telegram.  She 
throws  her  &rms  round  Marian  and  gives  her  what  the 
children  call  a  "  bear's  hug."  "  I  do  so  want  to  see  a  little 
bit  of  life  before  I  die.  And  I  want  too — to  make  Lady 
Stamer  mad." 

"  That's  being  honestly  vindictive,"  says  Marian.  -'  Poo;; 
Lady  Stamer,  I  often  think  she  is  more  to  be  pitied  thaa 
anybody." 

"  I  don't  pity  her.  I  shouldn't  dream  of  wasting  so  good 
a  feeling  on  her.  See  how  she  behaves  to  Eaton.  All  her 
affection  is  given  to  Sir  Bertram." 

"  And  he,  I'm  afraid,  doesn't  care  for  her,"  in  a  low  tone. 

"That  is  only  mere  justice.  However,  he  can  manage 
very  well  for  himself.  He  has  not  so  much  feeling  as 
Eaton." 

"  You  are  quite  mistaken  there,"  says  Miss  Vandeleur, 
with  sudden  and  unexpected  warmth.  "  Because  he  is  so 
silent,  people  think  he  is  phlegmatic — but  they  are  mis- 
taken." 

"  You  seem  to  have  studied  him,"  says  Evelyn  curiously. 

"Most  people  are  interesting  to  me,"  says  Manan 
calmly.  "I  like  to  think  them  out."  She  has  quite  re- 
covered her  usual  mild  manner.  "  And,  after  all,  I  don't 
see  what  great  difference  Lady  Stamer  makes  between  her 
two  sons." 

"  Oh  !  Then  you  are  the  only  one  who  doesn't  see  it. 
She  adores  Sir  Bertram,  and  treats  Eaton  abominably." 


£4  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

"What!"  laughing;  "yeu  can  say  that?  You,  who  tefl 
me  she  is  bent  on  giving  him — me  1 " 

"  Well,  that  puzzles  me  certainly.  I  wonder,"  says  Evelyn 
thoughtfully,  "  why  it  hasn't  occurred  to  her  to  give  you  to 
Sir  Bertram." 

"  Evelyn  ! "  says  Miss  Vandeleur  with  a  sharpness,  ai? 
involuntary  movement,  that  startles  the  young  girt 

"Why,"  says  she,  "I " 

"  Oh,  no,  it  was  nothing,"  interrupts  Miss  Vandeleur 
quickly.  "  Only — you  must  not  talk  to  me — like  that — • 
about  Lady  Stamer.  She  wouldn't  like  it.  Nobody  would 
And  as  for  Sir  Bertram " 

"She  won't  hear  of  it,"  says  Evelyn;  "she  can't.  I 
never  said  it  to  any  one  before." 

"  I  hope  not,"  earnestly,  and  looking  with  a  rather  pale 
face  at  her  companion.  "  Promise  me  more,  that  you  will 
not  ever  say  it  again." 

"I  promise,"  in  a  rather  wondering  tone.  "But 

Oh,"  looking  out  of  the  window,  "  here  is  Eaton  coming 
across  the  lawn,  and  Batty"  (Mr.  Blount's  pet  name)  "and 
—Mr.  Crawford.  Come  down  and  help  me  to  talk  to 
tfcem." 


CHAPTER  XVL 

44  HERE  we  are ! w  cries  Mr.  Blount  cheerfully,  as  the  girls 
enter  the  drawing-room.  He  is  always  terribly  cheerful. 
"  Eaton  and  I  were  coming  up  to  have  a  look  at  you,  when 
we  met  Mr.  Crawford.  We  asked  him  to  give  us  the  light 
of  his  countenance.  Whatever  we  are,  he  looks  respect- 
able. So  we  thought  if  he  took  us  in  tow  we  might  present 
a  better  appearance." 

"  Against  every  word  of  that  speech  I  enter  a  protest," ; 
says  Captain  Stamer. 

"  So  do  I,"  says  Mr.  Crawford.  "  It  is  most  unfair  that 
he  should  give  you  the  impression  that  he  induced  me  to 
come  here.  I  assure  you,  Miss  D'Arcy,  I  was  within  your 
gates,  with  the  design  of  calling  upon — Mrs.  D'Arcy,  when 
Mr.  Blourit  met  me." 

"Tut,"  says  she,  with  a  tilt  of  her  pretty  chin,  "who 
minds  Batty  !"  Whereupon  that  young  man  turns  on  her 
a  glance  replete  with  reproach. 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  9$ 

"You  fcnow  I  am  defenceless  when  in  your  presence, 
Evelyn,"  says  he  mournfully. 

"  And  a  good  thing  too,"  says  she,  "  for  if  you  had  a 
*word,  /  certainly  would  be  the  one  to  draw  it — not  you. 
And  after  that,  the  consequences  to  you  would  probably 
be  awful." 

"She's  not  well  to-day,**  says  Mr.  Blount  in  a  generous 
aside.  "  One  can  see  that.  Well,  a  truce  to  hostilities. 
What  we  principally  came  for  was  to  know  who  is,  and  who 
is  not,  going  to  the  Castle  next  week  ?  " 

"  We  are,"  says  Marian  Vandeleur,  including  Evelyn  in 
the  "  we  "  by  a  slight  gesture. 

"  Oh !  you  are  going,  then,"  says  Captain  Stamer,  ad- 
dressing Evelyn.  He  had  evidently  had  doubts  about  it. 

"  Yes ;  Marian  has  persuaded  me,"  says  she  rather 
shamefacedly.  Perhaps  after  all  she  should  not  have 
accepted  those  pretty  gowns.  A  cloud  steals  over  her 
face. 

"Then  we  are  all  going,"  says  Mr.  Blount.  "That 
throws  a  roseate  hue  over  the  fact  that  we  shall  have  to 
koo-too  to  a  live  duchess  for  seven  long  days.  The  tribe 
is  so  very  aearly  extinct  that  we  approach  it  with  reverence 
and  awe." 

"  You,  too,  are  to  be  one  of  the  duchess's  guests  ?  "  asks 
Evelyn,  smiling  at  Mr.  Crawford. 

"No.  I  am  not  so  fortunate,"  replies  he,  smiling  in 
return,  as  though  he  finds  it  impossible  to  resist  her;  as 
if,  too,  smiles  are  strangers  to  him.  "  I  am  sorry  now  I 
was  not  introduced  to  her.  She  might  have  asked  me." 
The  implied  compliment  is  very  delicately  tendered. 

"  Oh !  I  am  sorry,"  says  the  girl  very  gently,  and  with 
something  of  sincerity  in  her  tone.  She  is  leaning  forward 
and  looking  up  at  him,  with  parted  lips,  and  eyes  that 
smile  at  him  through  lids  half  lowered.  That  she  is  realiy 
a  little  sorry  because  he  cannot  be  one  of  her  companions 
at  the  Castle  is  quite  clear.  Only  a  little  sorry,  truly — but 
how  much  even  a  crumb  is  to  a  starving  soul. 

"  I  say,"  says  Mr.  Blount  to  Evelyn  with  a  sprightly 
l?.ugh,  "  you  should  have  seen  my  aunt's  face  when  she  heard 
you  were  going  to  the  Cas*!*.  Green  isn't  the  colour.  It 
was  ever  so  many  shades  deeper  than  that.  No  love  lost 
between  you  two,  eh  ?  " 

A  deadly  silence  follows  this  pleasing  remark,    A  quick 


$6  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

red  flush  mounts  to  Evelyn's  brow,  an  an.o;ry  flush,  and  she 
straightens  her  pieity  figure  and  throws  up  her  head  in 
a  rather  militant  fashion.  Miss  Vandeleur  bends  over  a 
bunch  of  Dijon  ror.es,  and  seeks  for  comfort  there.  Stamer, 
looking  at  the  culprit,  explains  all  too  fully  by  his  glance 
that  it  would  give  him  keen  pleasure  to  drop  him  by  the 
nape  of  the  neck  into  the  garden  below. 

The  entrance  of  Mrs.  D'Arcy  is  felt  by  everybody,  save 
one,  to  be  a  special  intervention  of  Providence.  In  a  body 
they  rise  to  greet  her.  She  is,  iiidecd,  received  with  an 
'  enthusiasm  that  possibly  puzzles  her. 

Evelyn  alone  remains  unmoved. 

"  I  hate  her ! "  says  she,  with  the  prompt  and  terrible 
downrightness  that  belongs  to  youth  alone. 

"Who,  dear  ?"  asks  Mrs.  D'Arcy,  pausing  in  her  smiling 
vivacious  journey  up  the  room. 

"There  is  only  one  person,"  says  Evelyn  with  a  little 
shrug — "you  know  I  Lady  Stamer." 

"  Oh,  nonsen.se  1 "  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy,  with  an  apologetic 
glance  at  Eaton. 

"  Ves,  I  do.  I  can't  bear  her,"  persists  Evelyn  mu- 
tinously, in  spite  of  a  second  warning  glance  from  Marian, 
who  too  would  have  her  bear  in  mind  the  presence  of 
Lady  Stamer's  son. 

"  Dear  Evelyn !  "  says  she  in  a  very  low  tone.  But  the 
lowest  tone  in  a  small  room  is  generally  the  property  of 
all. 

"  I  know,"  says  the  girl  promptly.  "  It  doesn't  matter. 
He  understands.  I've  often  told  him  how  I  hate  her. 
You  aren't  offended,  Eaton,  are  you  ?  And  she  hates  me. 
She  is  as  velvety  as  a  cat  to  other  people,  but  she  looks 
at  me  like  this"  closing  her  lovable  eyes,  and  caricaturing 
Lady  Stamer's  put  on  hauteur  to  perfection. 

"  I  don't  think,  Evelyn,  you  ought  to  speak  of  Lady 
Stamer  like  that,"  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy,  making  her  protest 
plainly  through  a  sense  of  duty,  that  is  utterly  destroyed 
by  the  fact  that  she  is  laughing  immoderately. 

"  No  1  Why  ?  "  demands  Evelyn  with  a  tilt  of  her  chin. 
"  Because  she  happens  to  be  my  enemy  ?  oh,  that  is  too 
hard  a  doctrine  for  ordinary  people.  And  besides,  even 
in  little  ways  she  is  aggravating.  She,"  looking  round 
Suddenly  to  where  Mr.  Crawford  is  sitting,  as  though  sure 
Of  getting  sympathy  from  him,  "  always  gives  my  name  only 


A  LIFE'S  EEilORSB.  97 

fwo  syllables.  She  calls  m3  Eve-lyn,  so"  with  a  nod  of  her 
Small  head.  "  As  though  I  were  the  mother  of  all  living. 
In  Ireland  we  hate  to  hear  the  name  pronounced  like  that." 

"She's  a  criminal!"  says  Mr.  Blount.  "She  oughtn't 
to  be  let  loose  on  society.  What  are  the  police  about?  " 

"  And  I  like  to  be  called  Ev-e-Iyn,  so,"  goes  on  Miss 
D'Arcy,  very  properly  taking  no  heed  of  him. 

"  Evelyn,  so/"  repeats  Captain  Stamer,  in  a  little  mock- 
ing tone,  that  is  a  very  successful  imitation  of  hers. 

"  Evelyn,  so,  so,"  says  Mr.  Blount  quite  affectionately. 

"  Evelyn  /  "  says  Mr.  Crawford. 

It  is  so  sudden  a  pronunciation  of  her  name — there  is 
something  so  passionate  yet  so  despairing  in  the  sound  of 
it — that  involuntarily  everybody  grows  still,  and  looks  at  Mr. 
Crawford.  He  has  spoken  from  out  the  gloom  of  the  falling 
curtains,  and  his  voice  is  startling  because  of  its  strange 
intensity.  It  is  as  though  the  man  has  forgotten  that  any 
one  is  within  these  four  walls,  save  he  himself,  and  the 
bearer  of  that  charmed  name.  Perhaps,  indeed,  for  the 
moment  he  has  even  forgotten  her  bodily  presence. 

There  is  something  tragic  in  his  utterance  that  reveals  to 
all  present  the  secret  of  his  heart — all  save  one.  That  one 
is  Evelyn. 

"  Eh  ?  "  says  she,  as  though  indeed  he  had  called  to  her. 
She  turns  her  expressive  face  to  his,  as  though  waiting  for 
an  answer.  For  the  second  she  is  dead  to  the  thought  that 
he  certainly  would  not  address  her  by  her  Christian  name, 
and  looks  at  him  expectantly  as  though  he  had  actually 
called  to  her — as  in  truth  he  has,  unconsciously,  from  out 
the  emptiness  of  his  soul. 

But  no  answer  comes  to  her  vague  inquiry.  Mr.  Crawr- 
ford,  as  if  not  knowing  that  any  word  had  escaped  him  or 
her,  sits  motionless,  the  absent  look  that  usually  characterizes 
his  face  now  strongly  pronounced.  It  is  an  inward  gaze, 
that  repulses  the  many  and  raises  pity  in  the  few.  Evelyn 
still  leans  forward,  fascinated  by  that  strange  stare,  and 
waiting  for  the  answer — that  will  never  come. 

There  threatens  to  be  a  very  awkward  pause,  when  suo% 
denly  Mr.  Blount  come*  to  the  rescue. 

"  Quite  so ! "  says  he  promptly,  addressing  Crawford, 
whom  indeed  he  is  regarding  with  a  delighted  eye.  To  him, 
Crawford  is  a  man  rich  in  promise.  Anything  so  naive,  ro 
fk§*h,  has  seldom  come  within  his  knowledge.  To  be  ia 


A  UttV  REMORSE. 


is  one  thing;  to  betray  one's  love  so  nobly  to  afl  the 
d  is  quite  another ;  and  to  give  a  "  private  view  "  of  it 


love 

world  is  quite 

to  one's  friends,  as  Crawford  has  just  done,  is  a  novelty 
indeed,  and  almost  more  than  need  be  expected  even  io 
this  ingenuous  age. 

Mr.  Blount  is  conscious  that  he  is  enjoying  himself 
thoroughly,  and  that  he  has  by  no  means  wasted  a  day  in 
corning  to  Firgrove.  Not  only  Crawford  but  his  cousin 
seem  full  of  possibilities.  Eaton,  sitting  over  there,  with 
an  eye  fixed  on  Crawford  and  with  murder  in  that  eye,  is  a 
feast  in  itself, 

"  You  like  my  name  ?  "  says  Evelyn  at  last,  getting  no 
direct  answer  from  Crawford,  and  being  anxious  to  hear 
somebody's  voice  again. 

"  Yes,"  says  Mr.  Crawford  slowly,  like  one  awakening  from 
a  dream.  A  hideous  dream,  if  one  may  judge  by  the  wild- 
ness  of  the  eyes  he  now  raises  to  Evelyn's  face.  Whatever 
his  thoughts  have  been  during  the  past  three  minutes, 
wherever  they  have  flown,  no  man  need  envy  them  ! 

"  You  can  see  at  once  that  it  is  a  prettier  name  with  three 
syllables  than  with  two,"  goes  on  Evelyn  in  her  little  friendly 
way,  still  addressing  him,  as  if  that  strange  expression  of  his 
is  unknown  to  her. 

"We  all  know  it  is  the  dearest  name  in  the  world,"  says 
Captain  Stamer  unexpectedly,  and  with  something  of  the 
vehemence  of  anger  in  his  tone ;  he  is  smiling,  however,  as 
he  speaks ;  and  as  he  ceases  he  laughs — rather  nervously. 
Of  late  he  alvrays  laughs  when  attempting  to  pay  Evelyn  a 
compliment.  A  tincture  of  fear  has  mingled  itself  with  his 
friendliness  towards  her.  To  Evelyn  it  seems  as  though  he 
is  ever  bent  on  turning  what  might  be  reality  into  jest,  and 
the  thought  puzzles  her.  It  is  at  such  moments  as  these 
that  she  understands  him  least — is  least  at  touch  with  him ; 
perhaps  because  it  is  that  at  such  unreal  periods  he  does 
not  understand  himself. 

"  Those  poor  people  you  have  been  so  kind  to,  Mr.  Craw- 
ford— they  are  so  grateful,"  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy,  beaming 
upon  the  silent  man  with  an  admiration  not  to  be  subdued. 
"  Mr.  Vaudrey  has  been  telling  me  all  about  it — that  poo* 
boy,  he  is  really  on  the  road  to  recovery,  I  hear.  What  a 
blessing  to  his  poor  mother — and  to  his  benefactor  too," 
*ith  another  smile  and  a  little  nod — "a  blessing  that  will 
cc  we  home,  I  don't  doubt." 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  99 

"It  is  nothing,  nothing,"  j#ys  Mr.  Crawford"  f,ncti!y,  cross- 
ing the  room  to  her  side,  fa  a  certain  speedy  fashion  that 
suggests  the  idea  of  his  being  anxious  to  lower  her  tone. 
"  Mr.  Vaudrey  has  done  everything.  I  have  been  glad  to 
be  his  helper," 

"  You  would  play  second  fiddle,"  says  she,  as  if  amused. 
"  Why,  that  is  a  role  that  all  men  refuse.  No,  no,  you  must 
wear  your  blushing  honours  as  thick  as  you  have  woven 
them.  The  song  of  praise  will  be  sounded  in  your  ears 
whether  you  will  or  no." 

"  Lamentations,  it  should  be,"  says  he  in  a  low  tone. 
Then; "  You  have  been  very  kind  to  me  so  far,  Mrs.  D'Arcy," 
says  he,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground.  "  You  can,  if  you 
will,  even  add  to  that  kindness.  Never  again  give  me  credit 
for  any  charitable  act." 

"Oh  !  but  that  is  supreme  modesty,"  says  she  lightly.  "  It 
is  almost  affectation.  In  reality,  though  one  disclaims  the 
desire  for  praise,  one  feels  aggrieved  if  the  praise  is  not 
given.  You  must  not  prove  yourself  superlatively  good, 
or  you  will  be  unpopular  in  Fenton." 

"  I  shall  not  be  proved  unpopular  on  that  count,"  returns 
he  slowly. 

"Well,  I  don't  know — you  bid  fair  for  it  There  is 
Evelyn,  she  is  almost  as  bad  as  the  rector  in  her  admiration 
of  your  charities." 

"  Miss  D'Arcy  is  charity  personified  if  she  can  think  thus 
of  me.  But  I  do  not  dare  to  believe  she  thinks  of  me  at  all. 
As  for  charity,  it  has  its  being  under  so  many  hundred 
names  that  the  real  true  charity  is  hard  to  find." 

"  Love  is  the  best  name  of  all,"  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy. 

"  Ah  ! "  He  pauses,  and  looks  down  again.  "  To  be 
truly  charitable,  then,  you  believe  one  should  love  the  object 
cf  one's  charity  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  not  that  exactly ;  charity  would  be  an  easy 
virtue  if  that  were  so.  But  one  should  love  to  give  where 
necessity  calls  for  giving,  and  one  should  not  look  for  gain 
to  self  in  that  giving,  whether  from  earth  or  heaven." 

Mr.  Crawford  lifts  his  eyes,  and  studies  her  face  for  a 
moment  with  a  certain  intentness.  And  now  he  sighs  and 
turns  aside. 

"  How  gently  you  can  deal  a  death-blow,"  says  he.  "  But 
a  truce  to  all  such  arguments ;  they  are  sickly,  dull,  and 
•low;  you  must  pardon  ray  introduction  of  them/' 


100  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE, 

"  Of  charity !  that  sweetest  of  all  gifts * 

"  Let  us  talk  of  something  else,"  says  he  with  determine 
tion.  "  Of — your  niece,  for  example." 

"Of  Evelyn?  Almost  as  sweet  a  topic,"  says  Mrs. 
D'Arcy  genially.  "I'm  g]ad  you  like  her."  To  MrSv 
D'Arcy,  who  is  still  young,  it  seems  quite  natural  to  speak 
without  reserve  of  so  young  a  girl  as  Evelyn  to  this  man, 
who  may  well  come  under  the  category  of  old. 

"Everybody  likes  her,  I  suppose.  It  is  a  paltry  word,1* 
says  Mr.  Crawford. 

"Yes;  most  people,  at  all  events.  You  can  see  foi 
yourself  how  lovable  she  is — so  bright  so  pretty.  You 
think  her  pretty  ?  " 

•  "  That  too  is  a  paltry  word,"  says  he  smiling.     "  Surely 
— like  the  flowers  or  the  birds — she  is  lovely." 

"She  is — she  is  !"  with  open  delight.  "  You  understand 
her.  She  is  the  sunshine  of  this  house ;  I'm  sure  how  I — 
how  the  children — could  get  on  without  her,  I  haven't  the 
courage  to  work  out ;  and  as  for  Colonel  D'Arcy,  he  adores 
her." 

"  And  yet,"  says  Mr.  Crawford  thoughtfully,  "  there  have 
been  moments  when  I  have  seen  the  gaiety  fade  from  her 

face,  and  a  shadow  replace  it ;  I "  he  pauses  with  a  touch 

of  confusion  curious  in  so  quiet  a  man.  "  I  have  watched 
her.  I  am  a  student  of  human  nature,  you  will  see ;  and 
the  changes  in  her  nature, from  sunshine  to  gloom  at  intervals, 
have  I  confess,  interested  me." 

"  As  for  that,"  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy,  with  a  half  glance  to 
where  Evelyn  is  standing  at  the  end  of  the  room  trying  to 
put  a  spider  down  Mr.  Blount's  back,  "she  often  puzzles 
me.  But  there  are  reasons  for  those  sudden  changes  in 
her — many,  indeed,  but  one  that  overtops  all  the  others. 
The  few  I  can  name,  but  that  other  we  never  speak  about ; 
she  has  made  us  promise  silence.  You  will  hear  her  dis- 
cussed often,  but  you  must  not  mind  all  that  people  say." 

"  I  shall  mind  nothing." 

"  She  has  had  a  sad  life.  As  I  think  I  told  you  before 
she  was  made  an  orphan  when  still  very  young.  Her  mother 
died  in  giving  her  birth ;  her  father,  who  was  an  old  man 
when  she  was  born,  he — well,  well,  it  is  a  sad  story,  Mr. 
Crawford,  and  one  we  seldom  dwell  on.  We  never  talk  of 
k — at  all  events  before  her." 

Mr.  Crawford  inclines  his  head  sympathetically.    "  Fathexs 


A  LIFE'S  REMORS&  flO» 

«  scoundrel,  did  something  disreputable,"  is  his  swift  inward 
comment  on  her  words,  to  be  followed  as  swiftly  by  • 
bitter  self-accusation.  Who  is  he  that  he  should  condemn 
any  man — call  any  man  a  sinner  1 

"  Yes,  yes,"  goes  on  Mrs.  D'Arcy  meditatively.  "  Sh«r 
has  had  some  griefs — great  griefs.  But  she  is,  as  I  havg 
said,  the  sunshine  of  this  house  for  all  that.  She  has,** 
with  a  stifled  sigh,  "  little  lovable  ways  of  her  own  that  can 
cheer  and  comfort  when  most  things  fail."  This  last  terri- 
ble trouble  of  the  colonel's  comes  home  to  her  as  she  speaks, 
and  with  it  the  knowledge  of  how  Evelyn  has  striven  to 
lessen  it  and  give  hope  to  him,  and  not  only  to  him  but  to 
her  likewise. 

"  It  is  an  easy  matter  to  believe  in  the  beauty  of  your 
niece's  nature,"  says  Mr.  Crawford  in  his  slow,  methodical 
fashion. 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

FIVE  long  days,  oppressively  warm,  inconceivably  mono- 
tonous, have  at  last  buried  themselves,  with  a  reluctance, 
and  a  most  indecent  determination  to  make  the  most  of 
the  time  allotted  them ;  and  now  at  last  the  greater  mim- 
ber  of  those  we  know  are  assembled  on  the  lawn  of  Car- 
minster  Castle.  To-day  is  Tuesday \  to  morrow  July  wiii  bo 
a  whole  week  old. 

Already,  as  we  see  at  every  glance  around,  summer  is 
veell  advanced,  and  soon  autumn  will  be  with  us.  But  who 
cares  for  that  so  long  as  the  sun  is  shining,  and  flowers 
blooming,  and  life,  not  death,  is  present.  A  fig  for  those 
pessimistic  ones  who,  forgetting  the  joys  of  the  moment, 
look  forward  only  to  the  sorrows  of  the  future.  To  be 
morbid  is  to  be  an  ungrateful  fool.  "  Sufficient  unto  tha 
day,"  says  the  greatest  authority  of  all,  "is  the  evil 
thereof." 

To-day  is  one  of  July's  gayest  efforts.  It  is  so  mild,  so 
balmy,  so  full  of  perfumes  delicately  mixed  and  mingled, 
that  the  vaunted  air  that  is  popularly  supposed  to  blow  so 
"  soft  o'er  Ceylon's  Isle  "  is  but  a  distant  cousin  to  it ;  not 
£ven  a  near  relation. 

The  different  groups  spread  abroad  over  the  terrace^ 
\awns,  and  tennis  courts,  are  all  either  gasping  with  heat 


IB»  A.  LIFE'S  REMORS2. 

or  sitting  languidly  beneath  wide  white  umbrellas,  wondering 
why  on  earth  they  are  not  indoors  behind  the  kindly  blinds 
that  are  bidding  defiance  to  old  Sol. 

MI  shan't  live  through  it,"  says  Evelyn,  who  has  cast 
herself  upon  a  long  garden  seat  somewhat  in  the  shade, 
after  giving  her  opponents  a  terrible  beating  at  the  last 
game.  "  How  do  I  look,  Batty  ?  "  to  Mr.  Blount.  "  Boiled  ? 
—roasted  ?  " 

"  That's  just  like  girls  ! "  says  Mr.  Blount,  who  is  cross 
because  he  is  too  warm.  "They  keep  on  hinting  and 
hinting  m  the  meanest  fashion,  when  they  might  just  as 
well  speak  out  at  once.  All  the  world  knows  that  you  want 
me  to  say  you  are  as  pale  as  the  driven  snow,  in  spite  of  the 

day  being  at " 

"  I  want  nothing  of  the  kind,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy  indig- 
nantly. "Really,  Bartholomew,  I  think  it  would  be  an 

advantage  to  you  if  you " 

"  Were  a  little  less  candid  and  honest-spoken,"  supplies 
Mr.  Blount  promptly.  "  I  agree  with  you.  The  ingenuous- 

ness  of  my  speech  very  often " 

"  Ingenuity  you  mean,"  scornfully. 
"That's   an   old   trick,   you  know,"  says   Mr.    Blount 
Any  one  could  do  that.     Most  words  can  be  twisted,  but 
nothing  can  finally  crush  the  Truth,  in  large  capitals.     And, 
as  I  have  just  said,  girls  are  all  regular  born  Isaac  VValtons. 
Fishing  for  compliments  is  their  forte." 

"What's  yours?  Shall  I  tell  you?"  Miss  D'Arcy  is 
beginning  with  fell  design  in  her  eye,  when  luckily  the 
duchess  strolling  up  to  her  puts  a  semicolon  at  all  events 
to  her  next  remark. 

"I  must  congratulate  you  on  that  last  game,"  says  she, 
smiling  at  Evelyn,  who  is  accounted  very  pretty  and  out 
of  the  common  run  by  her.  "Mrs.  Weekling-Wylde  was 
quite  crushed." 

"  Yes?"  says  Evelyn  hesitating,  and  looking  a  little  puzzled. 
As  well  she  may.  She  has  not  often  heard  Mrs.  Wylding- 
Weekes  thus  named.  But  the  duchess  has  quite  a  talent 
for  forgetting  little  trifles  such  as  names,  dates,  &c. 

"Mrs.  Weekling-Wylde  is  a  mere  amateur  when  com. 
pared  with  Miss  D'Arcy,"  says  Mr.  Blount  witfi  astounding 
gravity.  He  drops  a  supernaturally  grave  wink  on  Evelyn 
as  he  says  this,  which  she  openly  resents.  The  duchess, 
needier  to  say,  is  looking  the  other  way. 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  tpj 

Her  whole  attention  indeed  is  given  to  the  advancing 
figure  of  a  man,  whom,  as  she  tells  herself,  she  is  unable' 
instantly  to  place.  It  is  the  weekly  day  she  has  set  apart 
to  receive  the  county  generally,  and  it  is  a  point  of  honour 
with  her  to  be  able  to  remember  any  one  with  whom  she 
has  had  even  five  minutes'  conversation.  Mrs.  Wylding- 
Weekes,  who  arrived  an  hour  ago,  was  received  with  effusion, 
the  duchess  being  under  the  impression  that  she  was  the 
wife  of  a  county  magnate  in  the  neighbourhood,  an  M.P., 
and  a  man  of  some  notoriety  who  has  made  himself  specially 
obnoxious  over  the  Irish  question,  and  who  is  therefore  a 
sort  of  person  to  be  trotted  out  and  interviewed.  It  was 
only  indeed  when  she  asked  the  astonished  Mr.  Wylding- 
Weekes  what  he  really  meant  to  do  for  "the  poor  deaf 
Irish,"  that  the  mistake  transpired. 

Far  from  being  discouraged,  however,  the  duchess,  who 
is  in  her  most  genial  mood,  now  looks  out  afar  for  fresh 
material  on  which  to  expend  her  overflowing  bonhomie, 

"  Who's  the  death's-head  ? "  asks  she,  demanding  an 
answer  from  Mr.  Blount  who  is  nearest  to  her,  but  with 
her  eyes  on  Mr.  Crawford,  who  is  slowly  making  his  way 
towards  her  across  the  shaven  lawn. 

Bartholomew,  thus  addressed,  pours  forth  explanations 
to  her  under  his  breath. 

"  Crawford.  The  Grange.  N*ew-comer.  Got  the  '  dys- 
pepsy.'  Doesn't  know  what's  good  for  him.  Too  much 
money.  One  of  those  '  poor  rich  men '  somebody  speaks 
of.  Looks  as  if  he  didn't  know  what  to  do  with  his  super- 
fluous coppers.  Wish  /  was  in  the  way  of  giving  him  a  • 
lead!" 

"  Well  why  don't  you  ?  "  asks  the  duchess. 

"Haven't  got  the  tin,"  says  Mr.  Blount,  with  a  noble 
candour  that  is  only  to  be  outdone  by  the  simplicity  of  his 
elegance. 

The  duchess  receives  Mr.  Crawford  in  her  most  gracious 
style.  He  may  be  solemn,  he  is  undoubtedly  difficult,  but 
the  man's  a  man  for  a'  that. 

"  Such  perfect  weather,"  says  she,  smiling  amiably.  She 
is  still  young,  and  the  responsibilities  of  her  position  have 
ever  been  sealed  books  to  her.  She  would  have  made 
an  excellent  wife  for  a  country  squire,  and  indeed  foS, 
the  matter  of  that  she  had  been  an  excellent  wife  to  th» 
late  duke,  who  had  adored  her. 


I0i|  A  UFE'S  REMORSE. 

"The  best  summer  we  have  had  for  years,"  says  she  In 
her  exuberant  fashion,  beaming  on  Crawford.  Unlike  other 
folk,  she  always  begins  with  the  weather.  It  is  safe.  The 
condition  of  the  atmosphere  is  therefore  a  marked  feature 
in  her  conversation.  "  What  a  sun  i  I  don't  believe  India 
can  be  wanner ! "  This  is  a  stock  phrase.  In  winter  she 
alters  it  by,  "  I  don't  believe  the  North  Pole  can  be  colder." 

"  It  means  rain,  I  think,"  says  Mr.  Crawford.  This  is, 
or  at  least  should  be,  a  damper,  but  duchesses  are  never 
damped. 

"  You  really  think  so  ?  I  don't.  No,  no,  those  clouds 
over  there  mean  nothing  but  perpetual  heat."  She  doesn't 
want  to  explain  this  remarkable  prognostication.  "The 
whole  look  of  the  afternoon  reminds  me  of  that  delightful 
day  at  Lady  Stamer's,  where  we  first  met.  As  I  was  saying 
to  you  then,  I  think  this  part  of  the  county  is  the  driest  in 
England." 

As  she  had  said  nothing  to  him  at  Parklands  about  the 
county  or  anything  else  — for  the  simple  reason  that  she 
had  not  even  seen  him  there — this  is  a  slightly  embarrass- 
ing speech.  Mr.  Blount  is  enchanted  by  it,  and  stands  by 
waiting  eagerly  for  a  denouement  that  may*  add  to  his 
delight — but  disappointment  alone  awaits  him.  Mr.  Craw- 
ford bows  politely,  and  passes  it  over,  whereupon  Mr. 
Blount  falls  back  on  Evelyn  with  a  disgusted  countenance. 

"  Just  what  I  always  thought.  Man's  a  perfect  hypocrite," 
Says  he  indignantly. 

"  Do  you  play  tennis,  Mr.  Rockfort  ?  "  asks  the  duchess 
of  Crawford  pleasantly.  "  No  ?  What  a  pity  !  Well,  you 
know  everybody  here,  I  daresay,  better  than  I  do.  And 
here  is  Miss  D'Arcy  unattached;  will  you  take  that  seat 
near  her  ?  " 

She  smiles  kindly  and  moves  away,  whilst  Mr.  Crawford, 
taking  her  hint  with  alacrity,  drojA  into  the  seat  next 
Evelyn. 


CHAPTER    XVIIL 

"THE   duchess  has  a  wonderful  memory,"  says  Evelyn, 
With  a  litlie  amused  glance. 

"To  be  so  distinctly  remembered  is   very   flattering," 
teturos  he  drily,  yet  "vith  a  strong  touch  of  amusement  too, 


"  And  the  weather — what  a  resource  it  is ! "  continues 
she  mischievously. 

"  It  was  through  the  weather  principally  that  she  seemed 
to  remember  our  first  meeting,  therefore  I  should  be 
grateful  to  it,"  responds  he,  adapting  himself  to  her 
mood. 

"Weather!"  says  Mr.  Blount  gloomily,  who  has  caught 
the  word.  "  Tis  folly  to  praise  that.  There's  only  one 
weather  in  England.  And  that's  the  very  mischief." 

"  I  don't  think  that :  do  you,  Mr.  Crawford  ? "  says 
Evelyn.  "See  what  a  delicious  day"////*  is,  and  all  last 
week  was  just  as  lovely." 

"  Well,  we'll  pay  for  it.  You'll  see,"  says  Mr.  Blount, 
who  is  evidently  determined  to  take  a  pessimistic  view  of 
all  things,  with  the  idea  perhaps  of  checking  the  unlimited 
hilarity  that  prevails  all  round.  "We  all  know  what  an 
English  summer  means — of  late.  One  hot  day,  and  then—- 
the deluge." 

"Go  away,  Batty  1  You're  in  a  bad  temper,"  says  Miss 
D'Arcy. 

"  Is  that  a  hint  ?  "  retorts  he.  He  rises  with  pretended 
confusion,  and  having  cast  a  glance  full  of  deepest  reproach 
at  Evelyn  (who  returns  it  with  a  ttony  stare),  he  moves 
away — a  step  or  two.  His  melancholy  has  forsaken  him. 
He  is  himself  again.  He  has  scored  one  in  the  late 
encounter.  He  has  stopped  short,  meditating  a  further 
vengeance,  when  behold  it  comes  to  him  ready  made, 
Eaton  Stamer  walks  almost  actually  into  his  arms. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  says  Mr.  Blount,  seizing  him  by 
both  elbows.  "Not  so  fast !  That  seat  there,"  indicating 
the  one  he  has  just  quitted,  and  towards  which  Eaton  is 
.evidently  steering,  "  is  tabooed.  They've  just  turned  me 
out  of  it." 

"  Bartholomew  ! "  says  Miss  D'Arcy,  in  a  tone  that  would 
have  frozen  an  Icelander. 

"JTis  true — give  you  my  word,"  persists  Mr.  Blount 
plaintively.  "  Don't  mind  her.  I'm  the  '  true  Thomas ' 
on  this  occasion.  In  fact,"  tucking  hi.s  arm  into  Eaton's, 
"  '  Tv,ro  is  company — three's  trumpery.'  " 

Stamer,  whose  face  has  changed  a  good  deal  In  spite  of 
his  efforts  to  accept  the  whole  thing  as  a  jokef  frees  him- 
self lightly  of  Blount's  arm,  and  looks  at  Evelyn. 

a  match  being  arranged,"  says  he ;  "you  and 


tot  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

I  against  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes  and  Harcourt    Will  you 
play  ?  " 

There  is  something  unpleasant,  defiant,  in  his  tone,  but 
that  she  scarcely  realizes. 

"  It  is  so  warm,"  says  she  hesitating,  "  and  here " 

"  So  cool,"  supplements  he,  smiling  always,  but  so  joy- 
lessly.  She  had  hesitated,  but  not  with  a  settled  determina- 
tion to  refuse,  merely  with  the  natural  feeling  of  relief  that 
the  shade  has  given  her,  and  a  disinclination  to  leave  it. 
Still,  she  would  have  played — with  him. 

"  It  is  cool,"  says  she  absently,  thinking  of  the  coming 
game  he  has  proposed  to  her,  and  even  daring  to  see  her- 
self and  him  victors  in  it.  She  has  expected  perhaps  a 
little  pressure— the  old  desirable,  peremptory,  "  You  must 
come,"  on  his  part  to  which  she  has  been  accustomed — and 
is  waiting  for  it.  But  he,  seeing  Crawford  beside  her,  and 
having  guessed  his  secret,  and  being  filled  with  a  foolish 
jealousy,  lets  all  things  go. 

"You  are  wise,"  he  says,  smiling  always,  but  now  with 
open  coldness.  "The  sun  is  intolerable  You  will  be 
happier  here  in  the  shade.  Marian  will  perhaps  take  your 
place." 

He  turns  abruptly  on  his  heel,  and  is  toon  lost  to  sight 
behind  the  rhododendrons.  He  has  gone  so  quickly  that 
the  swift  movement  to  recall  him  has  been  unnoticed.  It 
was  an  almost  imperceptible  one,  and  once  controlled  she  is 
glad  th^t  it  had  not  been  seen. 

Marian  !  Marian  would  supply  her  place  !  Well,  Marian 
is  a  good  player.  Notf  quite  perhaps  so  good  as  she  is  at 
tennis,  but  in  all  other  ways  how  hopelessly  superior.  Yes, 
Marian  can  take  her  place.  And  what  was  it  that  Mrs. 
Vaudrey  had  said  ? 

"  I  hate  this  place,"  says  she,  rising  suddenly,  and  turn- 
ing large  troubled  eyes  on  Mr.  Crawford.     "  It  is  stifling  I 
Surely  there  must  be  air  somewhere." 
"  In  the  gardens  ?  "  suggests  he. 

"  There,  if  anywhere,  I  suppose,*  returns  she  with  a  rather 
tired  little  smile. 

*  *  »  • 

The  day  is  waning.  Half-past  six  has  sounded  from  the 
clock  in  the  old  tower.  Most  of  the  visitors  have  departed, 
and  only  the  house  party  sit  lounging  upon  chairs  and 
cushions  and  rugs,  enjoying  the  last  dying  rays  of  the  sun- 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE,  107 

fight.  Everybody  is  a  little  tired,  a  little  disinclined  to 
stir,  a  good  deal  inclined  towards  seriousness.  Everybody, 
that  is,  except  Mr.  Blount.  He  is  neither  tired  nor  serious, 
and  is  about  as  restless  as  he  can  be. 

He  is  at  present  chasing  the  little  duke  round  and  round 
a  flower  bed,  his  grace  screaming  with  that  imagined  terror 
that  is  the  joy  of  childhood.  To  him  the  harmless,  if 
slightly  trying  Batty,  is  a  vengeful  brigand  running  about 
seeking  whom  he  may  devour. 

The  brigand  growing  at  last  weary,  although  his  prey 
remains  as  fresh  as  morning,  sinks  into  a  chair  next  to  Evelyn, 
and  proceeds  to  prove  that  though  his  legs  have  failed  him 
his  tongue  is  still  in  great  working  order. 

"  You  look  done  up,"  says  he,  by  way  of  an  agreeable 
opening  to  an  exhaustive  conversation.  Now,  nobody  likes 
to  look  done  up.  Evelyn,  who  has  just  returned  from  a 
long  walk  through  the  beautiful  gardens  with  Mr.  Crawford, 
grows  distinctly  offended. 

"  I  don't  feel  it,"  says  she,  in  a  little  distant  fashion. 

"  Shows  how  deceitful  your  countenance  is,"  says  Mr. 
Blount  severely,  totally  unsuppressed. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  my  face  ?  Do  you  see  anything 
the  matter  with  it  ?  "  demands  she  turning  to  Crawford,  who 
has  been  asked  to  stay  to  dinner  by  the  duchess,  and  is  now 
awaiting  with  anxiety  the  arrival  of  his  clothes. 

"  No,"  says  he  gravely,  yet  with  such  evident  meaning 
that  a  little  flush  creeps  into  her  face.  The  most  extravagant 
compliment  he  could  have  paid  her  would  have  been  hardly 
so  eloquent  as  this  one  word. 

The  duchess,  who  has  been  revolving  from  guest  to  guest, 
now  approaching  their  corner,  comes  to  a  standstill  about  a 
yard  or  so  from  them. 

"  What  about  these  pageants  for  Thursday  night  ?  "  says 
she,  addressing  an  elderly  man — «.  weak-minded  earl  who 
had  been  induced  to  wander  from  more  mirthful  scenes 
into  this  remote  little  village,  and  that,  too,  in  the  height  of 
the  season.  " Oh !  no,  don't  stir.  Well,  if  you  will" 
seating  herself.  "The  fact  is,  I'm  uneasy  about  these 
tableaux ;  we  have  asked  everybody  to  see  them  and,  so  far, 
there  is  nothing  to  see." 

"  But  why  tableaux?"  asks  Lord  Sardou,  quite  pertinently 
for  him. 

u  You  see  my  time  here  is  so  short,"  explains  her  grace. 


log  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

"  Oh !  don't  say  that,"  says  Mr.  Blount,  breaking  into  the 
conversation  with  a  tearful  air.  "  Though  so  admirably 
fitted  for  it,  don't  say  heaven  is  your  next  abode." 

The  duchess  laughs.     She  is  always  glad  to  laugh. 

"No  such  luck,"  says  she,  shaking  her  black  head 
"Yorkshire  will  see  me  next  week,  not  heaven.  The 
dowager  wants  to  see  her  grandson,  and  such  a  claim  is  not 
to  be  denied.  Well,"  as  the  young  duke  rushes  towards 
her  and  scrambles  on  to  her  knee,  big  boy  of  seven  as  he  is, 
"she'll  have  a  goodly  sight." 

The  maternal  instinct  and  the  maternal  pr?fle  are  as  strong 
in  duchess  as  in  peasant.  This  duchess  winds  an  arm 
about  her  principal  possession  and  he  in  return  grabs  her 
found  the  neck  as  roughly  as  might  the  peasant's  son,  and 
imprints  a  resounding  kiss  upon  her  cheek. 

"  It  did  one  good  to  see  it,"  says  Mrs.  Vaudrey  afterwards, 
who  too  had  been  bidden  to  dinner  by  her  old  friend — to 
the  everlasting  chagrin  of  Lady  Stamer,  who  had  gone  home 
half  an  hour  ago. 

"  In  the  meantime,"  says  the  duchess,  "  I  have  pledged 
myself  to  the  people  of  Fenton  to  give  them  some  sort  of 
amusement  on  the  night  of  Thursday  next  It  rests  with 
all  present  to  make  my  word  good." 

"  You  terrify  us  ! "  says  a  pretty  woman,  the  wife  of  a 
celebrated  author,  who  had  come  down  from  town  with  her 
hostess. 

"  Tut ! "  says  Mr.  Blount,  who  knows  the  pretty  woman*/— 
who,  indeed,  knows  everybody  worth  knowing.  "Who's 
afraid  ?  Eaton,"  to  his  cousin  who  is  passing  by,  "  give  us 
your  help  here." 

"Oh,  yes,  Captain  Stamer,"  says  the  pretly  voman,  leak- 
ing forward  as  if  sure  of  a  favourable  reception,  as  all  pretty 
women  are.  "  Give  us  a  word,  just  one  word~-the  word  in 
season." 

"  There  is  no  time  for  a  regular  play,  you  see,  and  yet 
I  feel  we  ought  to  give  some  little  spectacle,"  says  the 
duchess,  who  always  speaks  of  herself  as  "•  we."  It  sounds  as 
though  she  is  aping  royalty,  but  in  reality  it  means  only 
a  sort  of  humility  on  her  part — a  desire  to  include  the 
little  duke  in  all  her  plans.  "And  tableaux,  if  well  man- 
aged,  are  pretty,  and  a  good  beginning  to  the  d^ice." 

"  But  tableaux  ! — they  have  been  so  used  up.  There  is 
scarcely  one  that  is  not  as  old  as  the  hills,"  say*,  the  p»etty 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  »e* 

woman,  whose  husband  has  been  sufficiently  successful  tc 
enable  her  to  be  contradictory  at  times  even  to  a  duchess. 

"  Tis  true,"  says  the  duchess  meekly,  and  with  evident 
regret. 

She  is  still  hug;??;-.;.*  her  little  son  in  her  arras,  so  that 
perhaps  with  so  much  consolation  at  hand  she  does  not 
take  to  heart  so  entirely  as  she  should  have  done  the 
dearth  of  material  for  Thursday  evening's  promised  display. 
Still,  she  feels  it. 

"  Something  must  be  done,"  says  she,  "  even  though  we 
have  to  fall  back  upon  the  Black  Brunswicker  once  more." 

This  is  awful !  A  deadly  silence  encompasses  the  lis- 
teners. A  silence  that  threatens  to  be  eternal;  it  might 
indeed  have  been  so,  but  for  one  thing.  Bartholomew 
Blount  is  present ! 

Have  they  forgotten  him  ?  If  so,  he  soon  refreshes  their 
memories. 

"  /  have  an  idea  !  "  says  he,  rising  suddenly  from  his  seat, 
and  turning  an  illuminated  countenance  upon  the  duchess. 

"  Great  heaven  ! "  says  Captain  Stamer,  falling  back 
heavily  into  the  seat  Batty  has  just  vacated.  He,  Eaton, 
has  been  sadly  in  want  of  a  chair  for  some  time,  and  this 
seems  such  an  excellent  opportunity  of  getting  out  of  his 
difficulty  that  he  promptly  adopts  it. 

"  Oh,  I  like  that ! "  says  Mr.  Blount,  very  justly  aggrieved, 
not  so  much  because  of  the  impounding  of  his  chair  as  of 
the  aspersion  on  his  intellect.  "  There  have  you  been  think- 
ing until  your  brain  is  ready  to  burst  without  the  smallest 
effect,  and  when  I  have  really  developed  something,  you 
have  the  presumption  to  sneer  at  me." 

"Give  us  the  development,  Batty,"  says  Evelyn,  lively 
curiosity  in  voice  and  feature. 

"Do,  please,  Mr.  Blount," says  the  duchess.  "Any  little 
suggestion— — " 

"  It's  a  big  one,"  interrupts  Mr.  Blount  doggedly.  Few 
people  have  the  courage  to  interrupt  a  duchess.  Of  these 
few  is  Mr.  Blount,  who  is  plainly  no  respecter  of  persons, 
"  I  make  you  a  present  of  it.  As  you  have  just  hinted,  we 
•  have  all  seen  the  'Black  Brunswicker,'  and  the  'Huguenot' 
once  or  twice.  Here  is  a  more  modern  programme.  Let 
us  encouiage  the  nineteenth  century  mania.  Let  us  en- 
courage advertising.  Let  us  follow  in  trie  footsteps  of  great 
men.  As  a  beginning  kt  us  take  the  masterpieces  of  Fears 


119  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

and  Cope  and  Jacobs.     Let  us  do  them  a  good  turn.     Let 
as  'help  to  sell  their  soap  and  biscuits  and  baccy." 

Every  one  looks  on  Mr.  Blount  with  a  regretful  eye. 
Plainly  the  poor  creature  is  not  long  for  this  outside  world 
— soon  a  strait  waistcoat  and  a  padded  cell  will  be  his  sole 
possessions. 

_  Apparently,  however,  there  is  some  one  who  can  appre- 
ciate the  new  suggestion.  His  small  grace,  rushing  up  to 
the  duchess,  clasps  her  knees  with  his  arms,  and  looks  up 
into  her  face,  his  eyes  brilliant  with  expectancy. 

"  Oh  !  how  jolly  !  "  cries  he.     "  Mother— mother,  don't 
you  know  that  picture  about  the  soap  with  the  little  baby 
crying  out,  and  '  He  won't  be  happy  till  he  gets  it '  under- 
neath.     Who'll  do  that  ?  " 
Who  indeed ! 

"There  might  perhaps  be  a  slight  difficulty  about  that 
particular  one,"  says  Mr.  Blount  with  commendable  gravity. 
*  But  I  daresay  when  we  have  time  to  look  into  it  even  the 
— er —  rather  startling  features  of  that  picture  may  be 
satisfactorily  explained  away." 

"Are  you  going  to  do  the  explanation?"  asks  the 
duchess,  who  has  drawn  her  boy  on  to  her  lap,  and  is  pre- 
tending to  conceal  a  smile  behind  his  head. 

;'  Alone  I'll  do  it,"  says  Mr.  Blount  with  a  rather  Shakes- 
pearian air. 

"Are  we  to  understand  that  you  will  undertake  the 
part  ?  "  asks  Captain  Stamer,  who  is  feeling  really  interested. 
"  Why  not  ?  "  demands  Mr.  Blount  with  a  mild  surprise. 
"When  the  original  costume  is  a  little  toned  down  I  see 
no  reason  why  I  should  not  delight  any  audience  with  a 
sprawl  and  a  squall  that  I  promise  you  will  be  above  criti- 
cism." 

'  Oh  !  Batty  !  "  cries  Evelyn ;  she  has  given  way  to  wild 
mirth— hitherto  checked  with  difficulty,  but  now  gone  be- 
yond control ;  she  leans  back  in  her  seat,  and  laughs  un- 
restrainedly ;  it  is  almost  as  absurd  as  that  picture  of  Mr. 
Vaudrey  rushing  about  the  village  in  the  long  clerical  coat 
and  waistcoat  only,  and  twice  as  amusing.  There  is  an 
element  of  grief  in  the  one  idea,  nothing  save  a  sense  of 
the  ridiculous  in  the  other. 

"I  can't  see  what  there  is  to  laugh  at,5'  says  Bartholomew,. 
aggrieved.  He  fixes  a  plaintive  eye  on  Evelyn ;  and  as  if 
filled  with  remorse  because  of  it,  «he  sits  up  suddenly,  and 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSB.  f  II 

wriggles  Tier  right  shoulder,  and  stares  at  Bartholomew  in 
an  almost  frenzied  fashion. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  ask  Mr.  Crawford  and  Eaton 
Stamer  in  the  same  breath. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know — I'm  not  sure — but  I  can  feel  it," 
cries  she  distractedly ;  she  rises  from  her  seat  with  signs 
of  mortal  terror  on  her  brow,  and  involuntarily  lifts  her 
hand  to  the  shoulder  she  has  wriggled. 

Everybody  grows  terribly  concerned.  All  eyes  are 
directed  towards  her.  Is  it  catching  ?  Is  it  in  the  air. 
First  Mr.  Blount  threatened  with  dangerous  insanity — and 
now  Miss  D'Arcy ! 

"What  is  it?  What  has  happened  ?"  ask  twenty  voices 
in  twenty  different  tones. 

"  It  is  here  I "  cries  Evelyn,  clutching  her  shoulder  now 
with  a  tight  hand  that  is  suggestive  of  death  or  victory. 

"  But  what — what  ?  "  demands  Mr.  Crawford  pertinently, 
who  is  by  this  time  scarcely  less  frightened  than  she  appears 
to  be. 

"An  earwig!  an  earwig,  I  am  sure!"  gasps  she,  still 
grasping  her  shoulder  and  letting  her  horrified  eyes  meet 
his  for  a  moment.  "  I  can  feel  it  crawling,  crawling !  Oh  I 
what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

She  makes  a  step  forward,  hesitates,  and  then — no  doubt 
maddened  by  another  "  crawl " — she  flings  her  racket  to 
one  side,  and  flies  precipitately  towards  the  house. 

"  What  a  little  tornado  ! "  says  the  pretty  woman,  who 
has  spent  her  day  picking  out  faults  in  Evelyn's  faultless 
face. 

"What  has  happened?"  asks  the  duchess  with  some 
anxiety,  sweeping  up  to  where  Mr.  Blount  is  standing.  She 
had  not  seen  or  heard  anything,  except  Evelyn's  dart, 
swift  as  a  swallow's,  to  the  house. 

"Nothing — nothing  really,"  says  Mr.  Blount  laughing. 
"I  suppose  it  would  be  indiscreet  to  ask  what  has  given 
us  this  suspicion  of  tragedy  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all— not  at  all,"  says  Mr.  Blount  suavely.  "  So 
far  as  I  can  see,  Miss  D'Arcy  has  contracted  an  earwig 
during  her  walk  in  the  gardens  with  Mr.  Crawford,  and 
naturally  resents  its  intrusion  upon  her  privacy.  An  earwig 
up  one's  back  is  not  to  be  despised.  It  means  business." 

"  Oh  I  if  it  was  an  earwig,"  says  the  pretty  woman  in  * 
distinct  tone  of  unbelief. 


812  A  LIFE'S  RE1IORSE. 

"  It  was,  T  assure  you.  I  regret  that  I  must  persist  in 
my  first  impression,  as  I  see  you  are  not  partial  to — earwigs, 
but  so  it  was.  Even  the  most  callous  must  admit  that 
an  earwig  is  at  no  time  a  precious  possession,  and  Miss 
D'Arcy" — gazing  at  Evelyn's  still  flying  figure — "seems  to 
have  an  exaggerated  objection  to  them.  See  how  she  runs," 
pointing  to  the  slender  figure  now  lessening  in  the  distance, 
but  still  racing  as  madly  as  one  of  her  o\vn  colts.  "  The 
proverbial  three  mice  aren't  in  it  with  her,  though  after  all 
perhaps  the  comparison  is  unfair.  For  my  part,  I  should 
far  rather  be  pursued  by  ten  butchers'  wives  with  ten  carv- 
ing knives,  than  one  small  diabolical  earwig." 

"  Oh  !  /  wouldn't ! "  cries  the  youn^  duke,  who  has  been 
a  rapt  listener.  "  I  don't  mind  earwigs  a  bit,  but  a  carving 
knife  would  be  horrid.  It  could  kill  a  person,  but  an 
earwig  couldn't." 

There  is  no  contradicting  this  great  fact,  so  the  argument 
comes  to  an  end. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

MR.  BI.OUNT'S  suggestion,  though  scouted  at  first,  gains 
ground,  and  is  finally  adopted  with  acclamations  by  all 
-  concerned  in  the  duchess's  tableaux.  At  first  it  had  been 
determined  to  take  some  of  the  pictures  out  of  the  year's 
academy,  but  after  a  careful  study  of  them  it  was  discovered 
that  they  were  out  of  the  question.  Their  indigence  was 
terrible.  It  struck  one  at  the  first  glance.  It  was  evident 
that  they  could  not  afford  a  dressmaker,  because  they  had 
no  clothes.  Of  course  no  other  earthly  consideration  would 
have  induced  them  to  go  about  as  they  did.  It  was  a  sad 
case.  They  hadn't  so  much  as  a  penny  in  their  purses. 
Indeed  they  had  no  purees.  They  had  nothing. 

It  was  a  bad  blow,  as  there  was  an  R.A.  staying  in  the 
house  who  could  have  posed  and  dressed  them,  being  an 
authority  on  tints  and  attitudes.  But  even  Mrs.  Wylding- 
Weekes  was  not  equal  to  the  occasion. 

"  If  they  had  even  had  a  few  rags,"  said  she  reproach- 
fully. She  always  called  her  gowns  "  rags  " — she  thought  it 
funny. 

So  after  all  they  fell  back  on  Mr.  Blount's  suggestion, 
and  blessed  him  for  it  There  was  so  little,  time  to  prepare 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

that  perhaps  their  united  acceptation  of  his  idea  was  not  so 
complimentary  as  it  might  have  been.  But  Batty  was 
jubilant. 

"  Well,"  says  he,  "  so  you've  had  to  fall  back  on  me  after 
all.  Tell  you  what  anyhow,  you  won't  be  sorry  for  it.  And 
if  you  will  allow  me  to  suggest  one  thing  more,  duchess,  it 
is  that  you  should  give  your  audience  to  understand  that 
they  are  to  guess  each  tableau  as  it  comes  off.  That'll 
tickle  them — keep  them  up  to  the  mark.  Sort  of  give  them 
to  believe  that  they  are  behind  the  limelight  themselves. 
See  ?  " 

"  Excellent,  excellent,"  says  the  duchess.  "  I've  been 
always  so  afraid  that  they  would  go  to  sleep." 

"Leave  'em  to  me — I'll  keep  them  awake,"  says  Mr. 
Blount  valorously. 

So  they  leave  it  to  him  ;  and,  considering  all  things,  the 
results  are  not  so  disastrous  as  might  have  been  anticipated. 

And  here's  the  night,  and  here's  the  company — all  de- 
murely seated  and  all  eager  for  the  fray. 

There  had  been  little  time  for  preparation,  yet  everybody 
putting  his  and  her  shoulder  to  the  wheel,  the  costumes  are 
after  all  a  pronounced  success.  And  even  if  they  hadn't 
been,  the  county  is  so  delighted  at  being  invited  once 
more  to  an  entertainment  at  the  Castle,  which  for  so  many 
years  has  been  a  dead  letter  to  it,  that  to  a  man  they  applaud 
each  picture  until  they  make  the  welkin  ring. 

"  After  all,  though,  you  know,  a  play — a  play  is  better," 
whispers  Mrs.  Coventry  to  her  neighbour,  during  a  pause 
caused  by  the  unexpected  descent  of  the  curtain  on  "  Shir- 
ley's Neuralgic  Crystal."  The  two  girls  had  been  depicted 
by  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes,  who  is  always  ready  for  every- 
thing, even  for  neuralgia,  and  the  daughter  of  a  squire  in 
the  neighbourhood.  Indeed  the  amount  of  agony  the 
former  has  thrown  into  her  face,  as  she  wildly  grapples  with 
the  pain  in  her  head  with  both  hands,  is  hardly  to  be  sur- 
passed. 

"'The  play's  the  thing,'"  quotes  her  companion,  "whertj- 
with  to  catch  the  imbecility  of  one's  friends.  I  quite  agree 
with  you.  There  may  be — there  generally  is — a  breakdown  • 
in  a  play ;  there  can  be  nothing  in  a  stupid  performance 
that  allows  every  one  to  stand  still,  and  forbids  them  to 
mouth." 

•'  Still,  it's  not  so  bad,"  says  Mrs.  Coventry,  who 


114  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

doesn't  agree  with  everybody.     "  There's  the  guessing,  you 
know.     That  gives  one  something  to  do.     That's  difficult" 

"Very,"  says  her  neighbour  drily — a  Mr.  Cathcart,  a 
novelist. 

"  Did  you  guess  the  last?  * 

"  Did  anybody  ?  "  asks  he  mildly.  Well,  somebody  has 
at  all  events,  because  now  Sir  Bertram  Stamer,  who  has 
declined  to  take  part  in  the  proceedings,  cries  loudly : 

"  Shirley's  Crystal ! "  and  the  sound  is  taken  up. 

That  he  has  been  prompted  by  Mr.  Blount  from  behind 
the  curtain  is  known  but  to  the  favoured  few. 

"  I  wish  it  was  over.  When  will  dancing  commence  ?  " 
whispers  a  young  girl  to  the  man  near  her.  "  It  is  all  such 
nonsense.  I  hate  this  kind  of  thing.  Such  waste  of  time." 

("  First  season,"  thinks  the  man  leniently.  "  Better  able 
to  appreciate  a  sit  down  later  on.")  He  is,  however,  kind 
enough  to  humour  her. 

"  They  will  do  it,  you  know,"  says  he.  "  Must  show  them- 
selves off !  Think  they're  a  million  per  cent,  better  than  the 
regulars  on  the  stage,  and  that  it's  a  pity  somebody  shouldn't 
know  it.  But  this  sort  of  thing  is  better  than  a  play,  you 

know;  when  amateurs  give  one  &play! "  He  pauses, 

lets  his  head  fall  forward ;  deepest  dejection  covers  him. 

"  Well,  they're  going  to  do  something  else  now,"  says  the 
pretty  girl,  with  a  soupfon  of  disgust  in  her  tone.  "  How 
much  more  is  there  going  to  be  of  it  ?  Why  don't  they 
give  it  up  ?  " 

Pears'  Soap  this  time.  The  Queen  Anne  picture.  We 
all  know  it.  Here  is  the  long-nosed  Madam-Teazle-gowned 
dame,  descending  from  her  sedan  (Miss  Vandeleur,  whose 
nose  is  short  if  anything).  Here  is  the  extra  superior  portly 
person  who  is  handing  her  from  the  chair  (Bartholomew 
Blount).  And  here  is  the  obsequious  person  bowing  at  the 
door  to  her  Majesty  (Captain  Stamer,  who  hasn't  given  his 
mind  to  it,  and  looks,  not  so  much  like  a  soapmaker  as  a 
lunatic  at  large). 

"  How  kindly  he  smiles  at  her,"  says  Evelyn  to  herself, 
standing  at  the  improvised  wing  and  watching  him.  "  Much 
more  kindly,"  with  a  lively  satisfaction,  "  tlun  she  looks  at 
him." 

Every  one  happily  guesses  this  at  once.  "  There  is  no 
deception."  "  We  all  know  it."  The  illustrious  Pears  is  th« 
one  creature  "  understanded  of  the  people." 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  |ij 

"  How  absurd ! "  says  Mrs.  Coventry.  "  Mr.  Blount  as  a 

clown  would  be  superb,  but  as  he  is .  Her  pause  is 

more  expressive  than  any  words  could  be.  "And  as  for 
Captain  Stamer !  Now  why  dapeople  go  in  for  this  sort  of 
thing,  eh  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  if  you  could  tell  us  that  you  could  explain  a  great 
mystery,"  says  the  novelist,  mildly  still.  '  But  wait,  the 
curtain  is  going  up ;  we  may  be  finally  electrified  this  time." 

They  are.  It  is  Mr.  Blount's  own,  and  truly  he  is  some- 
thing to  look  at.  Anything  to  exceed  the  joviality  of  ths 
awful  grin  he  has  conjured  up  upon  his  features  has  surely 
never  then  or  since  been  rivalled.  The  spectators  cower 
before  it.  His  fellow  fools  grow  small. 

He  is  seated  behind  a  table,  on  which  a  giant  jug  (pre- 
sumably filled  with  Bass)  and  a  long,  long  glass,  that  used  in 
my  grandmother's  days  to  be  called  a  jelly  glass,  are  stand- 
ing. This  jelly  glass  he  is  clutching  feverishly  with  his  right 
hand,  whilst  the  left  is  lifted  up  on  high  and  has  in  its  clutch 
a  most  astonishing  pipe  filled  with  an  even  more  astonishing 
weed,  that  throws  out  volumes  of  smoke  without  any  provo- 
cation whatever.  A  gigantic  Charles  the  Second  hat  crowns 
his  smiling  brow,  whilst  ruffles  innumerable  lie  furled  beneath 
his  chin.  A  moustache,  that  would  have  done  justice  to 
Don  Quixote,  curls  upwards  and  burrows  in  his  eyes,  whilst 
wrinkles  innumerable — done  evidently  by  over-burnt  cork 
— make  his  face  remarkably  dirty.  Altogether,  beyond 
doubt  he  is  the  feature — the  picture — of  the  evening. 

Anything  more  distinctly  silly — anything,  except  a 
village  urchin,  dirtier— could  hardly  be  imagined  even  in  a 
fearsome  dream. 

"  W/te/isit?" 

"Whoflwihebe?* 

"Don  Carlos?" 

"  Nonsense ! " 

"The  Devil?" 

"That  certainly?* 

"  Oh,  /  know — that  queer  picture :  somebody's  mixture, 
eh?" 

"  Wrong  all  through,  but  you've  given  the  tip  for  all  that 
It's  that  ' Cope's'  affair ;  what  is  it  ?  Cigarettes  made  by 
English  girls  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  of  course.  Well,  he  does  look  a  fool  If  I  were 
I'd  summon  him." 


lid  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

"Thanfe  goodness  he  is  gone,"  says  the  pretty  girl,  with 
a  contemptuous  flick  of  her  fan.  "  A  little  more  of  this 
sort  of  thing,  and " 

"Well — here's  a  little  more,"  says  her  companion,  as  the 
curtain  once  again  goes  slowly  up. 

Certainly  a  charming  picture  this  time.  Such  a  lovely 
little  face,  smiling,  roguish,  set  in  a  frame,  and  with  only  so 
much  of  it  seen  as  comprises  the  head  crowned  by  a  toque, 
and  with  the  mouth  hidden  behind  a  huge  muff.  She  Is 
indeed  just  peeping  over  the  jealous  fur  that  so  cruelly  con- 
ceal the  laughing  lips,  but  the  brilliant,  mirthful  eyes  make 
up,  almost,  for  that  loss. 

There  is  a  little  silence.  Everybody  knows  the  picture, 
but  nobody  can  remember  the  name.  Society,  as  a  rule,  is 
not  quick-witted  once  t;:ken'out  of  its  own  groove.  And  now 
it  seems  to  have  a  little  difficulty  about  naming  this  adver- 
tisement ;  or  it  is  perhaps  that  they  do  not  wish  the  charm- 
ing face  to  be  taken  away  too  soon. 

At  last  a  solemn  voice  in  the  crowd  says  : 

"Long  live  Peek  and  Frean's  biscuits,"  after  which  there 
is  a  general  laugh,  the  curtain  comes  down,  and  Evelyn,  with 
a  swift  sigh  of  relief,  casts  her  muff  from  her,  and  with  it  the 
lovely  smile. 

After  this  Mrs.  Wyldin^-Weekes  appears,  looking  .abso- 
lutely seraphic  as  a  nun.  Not  even  the  proverbial  duck  in 
the  thunder-storm  could  have  turned  up  its  eyes  any  farther. 
As  a  delicate  representation  of  Purity  itself,  she  stands  here, 
spreading,  let  us  hope,  beautiful  thoughts  amongst  her 
audience. 

"  Ah ! "  says  somebody  with  a  long  drawn  sigh,  that  comes 
apparently  from  behind  the  farthest  curtains.  Later  on  it 
transpires  that  it  is  Mr.  Wylding-Weekes  who  has  given  way 
to  this  sound  of  woe. 

"The  very  part  to  suit  her,"  says  Mr.  Cathcart 
mildly. 

"Exactly  my  own  thoughts,"  says  Mrs.  Coventry.  "I 
have  no  doubt  at  all  now  that  the  perfume  of  Cherry 
Blossom  is  the  odour  of  sanctity  ! " 

"A  valuable  discovery,"  says  Cathcart,  laughing. 

u  Don't  you  think  it  ought  to  be  soon  over  ?  "  says  the 
pretty  girl  sadly.  "  If  it  is  to  be  an  early  affair,  I  don't  see 
what  time  we  shall  have  for  dancing." 

"  Well,  it  is  nearly  over.    I  think  this  must  be  the  last," 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  H7 

r  companion,  dealing  consolation  to  her  rather  insin- 
cerely. He  is  right,  however.  It  is  the  last. 

It  proves  to  be  a  treat  kept  in  store  for  them  by  Mr. 
Blount.  Against  the  almost  tearful  entreaties  of  his  fellow 
actors,  he  has  insisted  upon  exhibiting  himself  as  the  little 
boy  we  all  know  so  well,  who  has  evidently  been  desired  by 
his  relations  to  blow  bubbles  against  his  will. 

Mr.  Blount  has  undertaken  the  part  of  this  melancholy 
little  boy>  and  after  having  driven  the  entire  household  to 
the  border  of  frenzy,  has  at  last  captured  such  garments  as 
he  fondly  imagines  are  suited  to  the  part.  The  young 
duke  had  finally  been  induced  to  part  with  his  best  suit,  and 
there  has  been  much  letting  out  and  much  patching  in, 
and  even  at  the  last,  in  spite  of  all  stretchings,  it  is  plain  to 
everybody  that  it  is  dangerous  to  wear  them,  and  that,  in 
fact,  at  any  moment  the  most  frightful  calamity  may  occur. 

This  is  so  thrilling,  that  the  audience  remain  spellbound, 
waiting  for  what  they  hardly  dare  to  name,  and,  indeed,  so 
great  does  expectation  grow,  that  Mr.  Blount  may  well  be 
excused  when  afterwards  he  declares  the  bubble  picture 
was  the  event  of  the  evening. 

The  bubble  is  made  of  one  of  those  coloured  bladders 
we  see  hawking  in  the  streets  in  May  and  June,  and  that 
children  buy  ostensibly  10  play  with,  but  in  reality  to  stick 
a  pin  in  them  and  see  them  "go  pop." 

This  coloured  toy  is  suspended  by  an  invisible  string 
from  the  ceiling  right  over  Mr.  Blount's  hea-.i,  and  on  it  he 
fixes  a  lack-lustre  eye.  He  is  seated  on  a  low  stool,  and 
how  he  got  down  to  it  wlhout  bursting  all  the  clothes  that 
are  on  him,  is  one  of  the  mysteries  that  never  have  been, 
and  never  now  will,  I  suppose,  be  explained. 

He  achieves  the  feat,  however,  and  being  a  stout  young 
man  with  the  innocent  blue  orbs  that  usually  belong  to 
early  childhood,  manages  to  make  a  picture,  that  if  slightly 
wanting  in  grace  and  beauty,  is  at  least  provocative  of 
wild  and  unrestrained  mirth  amongst  the  more  thought- 
less ones  of  the  audience.  The  more  earnest  members  of 
it,  however,  wait  in  a  shuddering  silence  for  the  dividing 
asunder  of  the  bands  and  the  seams  that  only  by  a  miracle 
bold  to  each  other. 

It  is  over  !  The  curtain  has  fallen !  The  dreaded  catas- 
trophe has  been  mercifully  prevented.  The  county  breathes 
again. 


Ii8  A  UFE'S  REMORSE. 

"Wait — wait,  Blount,  for  Heaven's  sake  till  I  give  you  a 
hand,"  cries  Eaton  Stamer,  rushing  to  him  and  lifting  him 
slowly,  carefully  off  the  stool.  "  Now  then,  gently,  gently  / 
There  now,  like  a  good  fellow,  get  out  of  those  tights  at 
once,  and  risk  the  explosion  no  further." 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear  fellow.  Tut  !  Pouf !  Safe  as  a 
church.  Can't  think  why  you  all " 

Here  comes  an  ominous  sound.     Another — another  ! 

"Oh  jiminy!"  shrieks  Mr.  Blount.  He  makes  a  des- 
perate rush  for  a  side  door,  gains  it,  and  happily  soon  is 
lost  to  view* 


CHAPTER  XX. 

EVELYN,  entering  the  lesser  ballroom  that  has  been  set 
apart  for  the  rather  informal  dance  that  is  to  follow  the 
tableaux,  sees  Mr.  Crawford  making  his  way  towards  her. 
A  few  yards  behind  him  she  can  also  see  Captain  Stamer, 
evidently  bent  on  the  same  object,  but  so  hemmed  in  by  a 
little  crowd  that  his  movements  are  rendered  necessarily 
slow.  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes  has  seized  upon  him,  and 
when  he  has  with  rather  scant  ceremony  answered  the  con- 
versational fire  she  has  directed  on  him,  it  is  only  to  find 
that  Evelyn  has  given  her  card  to  Crawford,  who  is  scrib- 
bling his  name  on  it. 

Crawford,  indeed,  had  reached  her  before  any  one. 

"  May  I  have  the  pleasure  of  this  dance  ?  "  says  he,  indi- 
cating the  one  just  now  commencing. 

"With  pleasure,"  says  Evelyn  mechanically.  There  is, 
however,  such  uncontrollable  surprise  in  her  tone  that  he 
finds  it  impossible  to  ignore  it. 

"You  thought  I  didn't  dance,"  says  he,  with  a  short 
laugh  that  is  half-embarrassed,  half-melancholy.  "  You 
think  me  too  old  for  such  frivolities.  Yet  I  beg  you  to 
believe,  in  spite  of  my  appearance,  that  I  am  not  yet  quite 
a  patriarch." 

It  is  almost  an  appeal. 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  your  age,"  says  Evelyn,  flushing  warmly, 
"I  did  not  think  of  that,  only — well,"  with  a  slight  touch  of 
desperation,  "  you  don't  look  like  that  sort  of  thing." 

"No?"  says  he.  There  is  a  slight  pause;  then,  "you 
are  right.  Melancholy  has  marked  me  for  her  own.  Antf 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  II? 

Hiers  Is  justice  in  her  claim."  His  eyes  are  on  tTie  ground, 
He  has  suddenly,  as  it  were,  grown  older,  greyer.  H<s 
looks  at  this  instant  one  of  the  last  creatures  upon  earth 
with  7?hom  one  would  seek  to  tread  a  joyous  measure.  His 
thoughts  have  evidently  flown  elsewhere ;  his  mental  vision 
is  fixed  upon  some  strange  thing  far  removed  from  th<r 
gaiety  ©f  the  hour  in  which  his  body  lives.  What  it  is, 
Heaven  alone  knows,  but  it  disfigures  the  man  ;  the  gentle 
brightness  of  a  moment  since  is  gone ;  he  looks  pale,  un- 
strung, hopeless. 

"  Go,"  says  he  abruptly,  without  lifting  his  eyes,  "  seek 
some  iftore  congenial  companion." 

"  What ! "  says  Evelyn  nervously,  yet  with  an  attempt  at 
playful  reproach,  "  would  you  cancel  an  honourable  engage- 
ment in  so  cavalier  a  fashion?  You  have  asked  me  to 
dance  this  waltz  with  you,  and  dance  it  I  will,  unless  you 
can  show  just  cause  for  my  not  doing  so."  She  pauses, 
and  with  a  sudden  sweet  change  of  manner  lays  her  hand 
upon  his  arm.  "  Mr.  Crawford,"  says  she,  with  a  lovely 
kindness,  "have  I  vexed  yoi>  in  any  way?  " 

"  You  I "  says  he,  looking  tip  now,  and  with  such  an  ill- 
repressed  burst  of  emotion  that  it  startles  her.  He  might 
have  said  more,  but  just  at  this  instant  Stamer  reaches 
them. 

"  Any  chance  for  me?  "  asfs  he,  looking  at  Evelyn. 

"Too  late,"  returns  she,  with  ^  slight  motion  of  her  fan 
towards  Crawford,  who  has  now  recovered  himself  and  is 
as  imperturbable  as  ever. 

"  I  seem  to  be  too  late  for  everything,  now-a-days,"  says 
Stamer,  with  a  smile  insufficiently  clever  to  conceal  the 
impatience  he  is  feeling. 

"  Not  for  everything,  rny  dear  Eatc*>,  *  says  Lady  Stamer, 
who  has  come  up  in  time  to  hear  the  Issf  remark.  "  There 
is  Marian  just  coming  in.  Go  and  asi  her,  she  will  not 
refuse  you."  There  is  more  meaning  in  her  tone  than  in 
her  words,  which  she  emphasizes  by  a  direct  glance  at 
Evelyn.  Miss  D'Arcy,  however,  is  equal  to  the  occasion ; 
she  returns  the  insolent  glance  with  calm  indifference,  letting 
her  eyes  finally  glide  off  to  a  distant  part  of  the  room. 

"  And  you,  Mr.  Crawford,"  says  Lady  Stamer,  wt<h  her 
most  engaging  air,  which  is  a  very  leaden  performance, ""  can 
I  do  anything  for  you  ?  You  dance,  of  course  ?  "  She  lays  so 
much  stress  on  this  meant-to-be-pretty  speech  that  it  is  plain 


120  A  LIFE'S  REMOHSE. 

> 

to  everybody  that  her  honest  conviction  is  that  he  does  not 
dance.  "  I  know  the  most  charming  partner  in  the  world, 
shall  I  introduce  you  ?  " 

"Thanks.  I  have  been  introduced  already.  M5=s  D'Arcy 
has  given  me  this  dance,"  snys  Crawford, with  an  air  if  possible 
more  engaging  than  her  own. 

"  Oh  ! "  sayj  Lady  Stamer ;  she  turns  abruptly  on  her  heel 
and  walks  away. 

"A  detestable  woman!"  says  -Crawford,  as  though 
impelled  towards  the  condemnation. 

"A  foolish  one,  at  least,''  says  Evelyn,  with  a  shrug  of 
her  white  shoulders.  She  speaks  with  admirable  nonchalance, 
but  she  has  gi'own  a  little  pale.  "Well,  you  have  committed 
yourself  finally  now,"  says  she  laughing ;  "  you  can't  get  out 
of  one  dance,  whether  you  will  or  no." 

"True,"  says  he.  "Tj  deny  myself  this  pleasure  is  out 
of  my  power.  Come." 

He  passes  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  presently  the 
dancing  crowd  has  caught  them.  So  much  time  had  been 
lost  beforehand  in  the  idle  conversation  recorded,  that  there 
is  barely  time  left  to  make  a  circuit  of  the  room  before  the 
soft  strains  of  the  band  die  away  into  silence.  Enough  tiaie 
has  been  given,  however,  to  convince  Evelyn  that  she  has 
been  dancing  with  the  best  waltzer  she  has  ever  met ;  one 
of  the  best  in  Europe,  had  she  but  known. 

"  You  can  dance ! "  says  she  with  unrestrained,  girlish 
enthusiasm,  as  they  come  to  a  standstill  near  the  entrance 
to  a  large  conservatory  that  leads  in  its  turn  to  the  gardens 
outsitle.  If  she  has  meant  this  little  speech  as  a  compliment, 
it  fails  entirely.  It  only  impresses  upon  Mr.  Crawford  the 
sense  of  age  that  has  been  weighing  him  down  all  the 
evening — that  has  been  weighing  him  down  indeed  ever 
since  the  first  day  he  saw  her. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  says  he  quietly,  "  and  since  I  have 
now  gained  your  good  opinion,  I  shall  not  risk  the  losing  of 
it.  This  is  my  first  dance  to-night,  it  shall  be  my  last." 

"  But  why  ? "  says  Evelyn,  regarding  him  with  half- 
reproachful  eyes.  "  So  few  good  dancers  in  the  county, 
and  the  best  of  them  to  give  out  a  fiat  such  as  this  !  " 

"  Old  men  should  take  a  back  seat,"  says  he,  giving  his 
little  touch  of  slang  with  so  gently  humorous  an  air  that  the 
bitterness  of  the  soul  beneath  is  almost  hidden.  Almost^  if 
not  quite. 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSS.  Wf 

Evelyn  regards  him  critically;  she  has  read  tne  little 
bitter  note,  and  has  let  it  go  to  her  heart.  It  is  one  of  her 
chiefest  charms  that  she  can  go  earnestly  into  a  distinctly 
delicate  situation  without  leaving  the  marks  of  disagreeable 
touches  behind  her. 

"  You  are  not  old,"  says  she  directly,  openly,  thoughtfully, 
as  if  working  out  a  new  conclusion.  "  I  used  to  think  you 
were,  but  it  was  a  mistake." 

"  Oh,  no,"  says  he  smiling.  His  heart  has  taken  a  quicker 
throb,  his  eye  brightens,  youth  asserts  itself  once  more 
within  his  breast  and  beats  back  the  cruel  chill  that  despair, 
for  years,  has  planted  there.  It  is  sheer  folly,  he  tells  him- 
self, even  in  the  midst  of  his  fresh  delight,  yet  very  sweet 
withal 

'*  But  yes,  yes,"  cries  she  laughing.  "  Do  you  think  I  am 
going  to  be  contradicted  like  that?  Do  you  know,"  leaning 
a  littte  towards  him,  and  lifting  her  charming  face  to  his 
w,th  the  laugh  of  a  moment  since  still  living  in  the  depths 
of  her  lovely  eyes,  "  I  think  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself.  What  are  you  but  a  swindler  ?  You  come  here  pro- 
tending to  be,  and  looking  like — like " 

"  ,  .  _h  ?  "  suggests  he. 

"  Oh,  no !  And  you  mustn't  interrupt  me,"  with  a  delicious 
affectation  of  petulance.  "What  I  mean  is,  that  you  posed 
as  a  sober  person  when  you  came,  and  lo  1  when  the  oppor- 
tunity comas  to  you,  whore  are  you  in  your  role  t  Did  ever 
sober  man  waltz  like  you  ?  " 

"Would  you,"  says  he,  carried  away  by  the  freshness  of 
her  gaiety,  "  would  you  insinuate  that  I " 

"  Pout  I "  says  she  airily,  throwing  up  her  pretty  chin, 
"  don't  make  up  things ;  you  know  what  I  mean ;  by  sober, 
I  would  say  sedate." 

"  Did  you  think  I  was  a  Quaker  ?  "  says  he.  "  Sedate  is 
a  word  that  always  seems  to  lead  that  way." 

"  There  are  worse  things  than  Quakers,"  says  she  impar- 
tially. "  Eut  you  are  not  one.  No,  what  I  would  say  is  that 
your  dancing  has  taken  me  by  surprise ;  you  try  always — you 
do  always — look  so  grave  that " 

"  You  see  how  it  is,"  says  Crawford,  interrupting  her  with- 
out apology ;  "  your  experience  of  the  very  aged  is  small. 
You  don't  often,"  with  a  smile,  "  favour  the  grand-parents  of 
society  with  a  dance,  as  you  have  favoured  me  to-night.  I 
Assure  you  I  appreciate  the  exception  you  have  made  in  my 


129  A  LIFE'S  KEHOBSB?, 

favour,  but— ^-w  he  hesitates,  and  turns  more  directly 
towards  her,  his  smile  fading  as  he  does  so,  "  I  am  afraid," 
says  he  in  a  different  tone,  "  that  you  owe  me  a  grudge  for 
that  favoer.  If  I  had  not  asked  you  for  this  dance,"  he 
pauses  again,  as  if  hardly  knowing  how  to  go  on,  and  then, 
"  Stamer  would  have  done  so,"  says  he,  jerking  out  the  words 
spasmodically. 

"  And  ? "  says  she  interrogatively.  Her  face  has  not 
changed,  no  smallest  tinge  of  pink  has  dyed  it.  She  stands 
looking  at  him  with  a  little  suspicion  of  determination  in  her 
gaze,  and  presently  it  is  borne  in  upon  him  that  she  has 
made  up  her  mind  to  get  an  answer  to  her  somewhat  vague 
question. 

"  Youth  desires  youth,"  says  he  sententiously.  "  I 
fancied "  he  pauses  again. 

"  What  ?  "  demands  she,  a  touch  of  imperiousness  now  in 
her  soft  tones ;  but  even  as  she  waits  for  a  reply  she  seems 
to  have  tired  of  her  own  longing  for  information,  and  throws 
it  from  her  with  a  little  idle  laugh.  "  Oh,  I  see,"  says  she, 
as  one  might  who  has  made  a  silly  discovery,  "  you  fancied 
I  wanted  to  dance  with  Eaton  !  Why,  say  I  did  so  fancy  j 
the  night  is  long ;  I  shall  still  dance  with  him,  no  doubt 
But  all  that  about  him  is  mere  supposition.  You  speak  of 
youth ;  he  is  not  the  only  youthful  person  in  the  room." 

"  Not  by  many  a  one." 

"  Neither  am  I,"  laughing.  "  I  don't  conserve  all  the 
youth  to  myself." 

"  You  conserve  the  ideal  of  it,"  says  he  gravely. 

"  That  is  your  ki.*\d  prejudice,  or  else  your  pretty  com- 
pliment," says  she,  reddening  faintly.  "  You  are  not  sensible ; 
you  should  take  things  as  they  are.  As  for  Eaton,  he  has 
plenty  of  common  sense,  and  he  has  secured  an  admir- 
able partner ;  see,"  with  a  slight  shrug  of  her  shoulders, 
"  he  is  dancing  with  Miss  Vandeleur." 

"  I  see,"  says  Crawford  gravely,  who  has  noticed,  if  she 
has  not,  that  Stamer's  eyes  are  given  to  her,  and  not  to  his 
partner.  "  Will  you  come  out  ?  "  says  he  presently,  seeing 
her  refuse  two  or  three  invitations  to  dance.  "  The  night  is 
lovely,  and  it  is  stifling  in  here." 

"  Yes,  let  us  go  somewhere,  I  can  scarcely  breathe,"  says 
she,  rising  quickly  and  passing  into  the  conservatory,  before 
he  has  time  to  give  her  his  arm. 

"But  not  before  you  cover  your  neck  from  the  night  air," 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  t«3 

•ays  Crawford  anxiously.  "  Ah !  here  is  something  that  will 
suit  our  purpose."  He  lifts  a  white  delicate  silk  wrap  from 
a  lounge  and  throws  it  round  her  slight  form.  "  Now  to 
brave  the  elements,"  says  he  with  a  smile. 

Evelyn  laughs ;  a  clear  pretty  laugh  that  reaches  Stamer 
as  he  enters  the  conservatory  by  another  door.  He  stands 
still  involuntarily  and  looks  at  her ;  perhaps  the  intensity  of 
his  regard  compels  hers,  because  without  knowing  why,  she 
at  once  turns  her  eyes  to  his.  As  she  sees  him,  she  smiles 
rather  faintly,  and  is  indeed  so  altogether  absorbed  by  a 
thought  that  has  been  troubling  her  for  many  days,  and  has 
had  to-night  a  spur,  that  it  is  not  until  he  has  gone  by  her, 
that  she  remembers  her  smile  received  no  acknowledgment. 

Drawing  the  silken  covering  more  closely  round  her,  as 
though  to  account  for  the  slight  shiver  that  runs  through 
her  frame,  she  follows  Crawford  down  the  stone  steps  of  the 
verandah  to  the  moonlit  gardens  beneath. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

THE  night  is  half-luminous,  half-lost  in  gloom.  Patches  of 
purest  light  lie  here  and  there,  whilst  beyond  them  is 
a  darkness  that  may  be  felt.  Now  and  again  in  a  little 
startling  fashion,  tall  lilies  pale  as  death  break  through  this 
blackness,  only  with  the  effect  of  accentuating  it.  Over- 
head great  banks  of  inky  clouds  bar  the  heavens,  hanging 
betwixt  earth  and  sky  so  heavily,  that  almost  one  looks  for 
them  to  drop  and  crush  the  sleeping  nature  beneath  into 
one  ruined  whole.  Above  and  below  them  run  light  paths 
of  moon-touched  blue,  out  of  which  gleam  a  myriad  stars, 
the  more  brilliant  because  of  the  shadows  that  surround  them. 
Now  the  queen  of  heaven  is  hidden,  and  now  again  she 
floats  into  view,  lightly,  uncertainly, 

*'  With  the  mild  gait  of  an  ungrown  moon." 

She  seems  pale  and  powerless,  and  only  on  such  a  path  and 
such,  sheds  her  keen  rays.  To-night  her  wings  seem  clipped. 
The  gardens  are  wrapt  in  a  dewy  silence  ;  only  the  breath 
of  flowers  stirs  the  air.  The  quiet  way  that  Crawford  and 
Evelyn  have  chosen  seems  to  have  carried  them  far  from 
the  laughing,  chattering  crowd  within ;  far  too,  from  those 


1*1  A  LIFE'S  REMORSB, 

who,  like  themselves,  have  sought  the  coolness  of  the  night. 
How  calm  the  world  seems  in  this  still  hour  i   How 
passionless  !     So  still  indeed 

"  That  we  can  only  say  of  things,  they  be  I* 

Scarcely  a  word  has  been  spoken  by  either  of  them  since 
they  left  the  house ;  just  at  first  a  commonplace  had 
been  uttered  and  responded  to,  and  after  that  the  restful 
silence  of  real  friendship  had  been  sought  by  both.  Craw- 
ford, buried  in  thought,  paces  the  shaven  turf  with  downbent 
head ;  Evelyn  is  thinking  too. 

"  What  a  strange  night,"  says  he  at  last,  stopping  short 
within  a  moonlit  circle,  and  glancing  round  him.  "  Half 
gleam,  half  gloom,  just  like  a  happy  life.*5 

"  Happy ! "  repeats  she  with  quick  surprise,  ana  as  if 
eager  to  remind  him.  "  Happy !  arid  half  gloom  ?  " 

"  Better  than  gloom  unbroken,"  with  a  smile  that  saddens 
her  unconsciously. 

"  You  think  then — you  believe "  says  she,  breaking 

off  incoherently.  "  Oh  !  it  is  too  hard  a  belief;  and  as  for 
gloom  unbroken  !  no  one  could  live  through  that." 

"  Yet  some  do." 

"  Oh  no,  no ! "  cries  she  sharply,  as  if  hurt.  "  Life  is 
given  us  without  our  asking  for  it — is  it  fair  that  the  gift 
thus  pressed  upon  us,  should  be  one  of  woe  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  mystery,"  says  he  in  a  low  tone.  "  But  one  thing 
time  has  shown  me.  To  be  half  happy  in  this  world  of  ours, 
is  to  be  blessed  above  one's  fellows." 

"You  are  out  of  spirits  to-n'ght,"  says  the  girl  gently, 
"else  you  would  not  talk  so  sadly.  Ever  s:nce  you  asked 
me  to  dance  I  have  noticed  it.  No,  no,"  quickly,  "  I  don't 
mean  to  insinuate  that  you  found  your  misery  in  that  one 
waltz,  but  I  fear — I  fear  you  have  heard  bad  news  to-day." 

"  There  is  no  bad  news  that  could  touch  me,"  says  he 
wearily.  "  I  almost  wish  there  was.  But  I  am  safe  from 
that  at  least." 

Yet  even  as  he  speaks  the  words,  he  checks  himself,  as 
one  might  who  has  made  a  chance  discovery.  2s  he  so  sure  ? 
Is  there  no  deeper  depth  to  be  sounded — no  fiercer  pain 
that  yet  may  torture  him  ?  He  conquers  this  newborn  fear, 
yet  the  shadow  of  it  clinging  to  him  suggests  his  next  remark. 

"How  many  friends  you  seem  to  have,"  says  he,  "and 
nil  old  friends.  That  is  a  charm,  I  think," 


A  LIFE'S  REMOBS1S,  125 

"You  mean  that  I  have  known  everybody  here  ever 
since  I  can  remember  anything  ?  That  is  hardly  a  desirable 
thing,  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  It  seems  so  to  me.  You  came  here 
then  when  you  were  very  young  ?  "  It  seems  sweet  to  him 
to  learn  any,  the  very  smallest,  details  of  the  early  days  of 
her  still  early  life. 

"  I  was  seven,  I  think.  But  I  was  wrong  if  I  gave  you  the 
impression  that  r  re  member  nothing  before  that.  I  remem- 
ber a  great  deal.  Too  much "  she  pauses. 

"  You  mean ?  " 

"  I  remember  my  father,"  says  she  with  sudden  abrupt- 
ness. "  I  never  seem  to  forget  that.  It  stands  out  so  dis- 
tinctly. Just  as  if  it  were  yesterday." 

A  profound  pity  for  her  fills  his  breast.  That  guilty  father ; 
whatever  he  had  done,  there  is  no  doubt  but  that  the 
shadow  of  his  crime  has  darkened  his  daughter's  life. 

"  I  know  nothing,"  says  he  softly.  "  But  if  the  memory 
of  him  distresses  you,  why  dwell  upon  it." 

"Ah  !  why  should  I  not.  I  would  scorn  myself  if  I  for- 
got. And  besides  it  always  seems  to  me  that  some  day — 
some  day"— she  stops,  and  leaning  forward  looks  intently 
at  Crawford,  though  (as  he  knows)  without  seeing  him — "  I 
shall " 

What  ?  "  says  Crawford  almost  inaudibly.  He  too  is 
leaning  forward ;  an  unaccountable,  an  almost  maddening 
desire  to  hear  her  next  words  has  taken  possession  of  him. 

"  Avenge  him  I "  breathes  she  in  a  clear  whisper. 

He  draws  back  as  if  struck.  A  shudder  runs  through 
him.  It  is  only  the  sensation  of  a  moment,  but  it  is  suffi- 
ciently strong  to  be  a  real  feeling,  and  to  enable  him  to 
smile  at  it  afierwards.  Poor  child  !  No  doubt  this  erring 
father  had  been  to  her  an  idol,  and  is  now  a  martyr ;  a 
being  wronged  by  his  creatures ;  an  innocent  man  hounded 
into  exile  by  a  scurrilous  society. 

"  Do  not  dwell  too  much  upon  it,"  entreats  he  again. 
w  Of  course  I  know  nothing,  but " 

"  No  3  and  I  cannot  tell  you.  I  have  never  spoken  of  it, 
never.  And  even  though  you,  I  feel,  are  to  be  trusted- 
still,  I  cannot." 

"  I  am  glad  you  feel  -like  that  towards  me,"  says  he  very 
quietly,  though  his  heart  has  begun  to  beat  with  painful 
Perhaps  warned  by  it  he  rises  from  his  seat  and 


t*0  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

holds  out  to  her  his  hand.  "  Come,  I  dare  not  run  trie 
risk  of  wearying  you.  Let  me  take  you  back  to  the  ball- 
room." 

"  If  you  will,"  says  she,  rising  too.  "  But  you  never 
weary  me.  I  like  to  be  with  you."  She  says  this  naively, 
earnestly,  without  a  suspicion  of  coquetry.  However  she 
may  treat  younger  men,  with  Crawford  she  is  always  honest. 
And  indeed  it  is  now  only  the  bare  truth  she  speaks.  When 
with  him  a  sense  of  rest,  of  comfort,  falls  upon  her.  Many 
are  afraid  of  this  cold,  self-contained  unsociable  man,  but 
not  Evelyn,  perhaps  because  to  her  alone  his  heart  has 
gone  out. 

He  might  have  made  some  answer  to  her  kindly  words, 
but  that  at  this  instant  the  sound  of  voices,  raised  and 
wrangling,  reaches  them.  Nearer  and  nearer  they  come, 
destroying  the  ideality  of  the  night,  and  threatening  destruc- 
tion to  sentiment  of  any  kind. 

Crawford  casts  an  astonished  glance  towards  the  direction 
from  which  the  voices  seem  to  come,  but  Miss  D'Arcy 
maintains  an  unmoved  demeanour. 

"  It  is  only  the  Wylding-Weekes,"  says  she  with  the 
melancholy  resignation  of  one  who  knows  what  to  expect 
and  is  used  to  it.  "They  are  always  quarrelling.  One 
grows  accustomed  to  it  of  course,  but  I  always  wish  they 
wouldn't  do  it  so  loud.  It  is  so  unnecessary  and  is  such  a 
pity." 

"  It  is,"  says  Crawford  drily. 

c<  They  don't  care  who  hears  them,  or  where  they  are," 
says  Evelyn  plaintively.  "The  last  time  it  was  in  the 
church  porch,  and  we  were  all  there.  Some  strange  clergy- 
man had  come  to  preach  a  sermon  for  the  Hottentots,  or 
some  other  unpleasant  people,  and  he  lost  his  place  in  his 
sermon,  and  Mr.  Wylding-Weekes  declared  it  was  all 
because  poor  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes  had  been — been " 

She  hesitates  and  turns  a  lively  crimson. 

"  Well  ?  "  says  Crawford. 

"  It's  a  horrid  word  /  think,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy,  red  stilt, 
but  taking  her  courage  in  both  hands ;  "  but  I  assure  you  he 
said  she  had  been  'ogling'  the  missionary.  I'm  sure  it 
wasn't  true.  But  he  made  a  dreadful  scene,  and  we  were 
all  shocked." 

"They  are  coming  this  way.  Let  us  escape  with  our 
lives  while  we  may,"  says  Crawford,  and  together  they  speed 


A  LIFE'S  RSMORSS.  t»7 

througli  the  scented  shrubberies,  until  once  more  they  find 
themselves  on  the  moonlit  walk  before  the  house. 

"  We  have  evaded  that  danger,"  says  Crawford,  "  but  I'm 
afraid  not  without  evil  results.  Your  shawl  is  doing  any- 
thing but  its  duty ;  and  there  is  always  a  little  chill  in  the 
air  on  such  nights  as  these.  Let  me  fasten  it  for  you." 

He  lifts  the  white  silk  shawl  and  carefully  winds  it  round 
her.  To  Stamer,  coming  down  the  steps  of  the  conserva- 
tory, it  seems  as  though  he  is  encircling  her  with  his  arm, 
and  that  without  rebuke.  He  turns  abruptly  back  again 
and  re-enters  the  ball-room. 

Evelyn  and  Crawford,  innocent  of  the  fact  that  any  one 
has  seen  them,  and  still  more  innocent  of  the  fact  that  any 
one  could  possibly  have  misunderstood  the  situation,  regain 
the  ball-room  in  their  turn,  where  Evelyn  is  speedily  seized 
upon  and  carried  away  into  the  waltzing  whirlpool. 

There  is  no  doubt  about  her  being  the  big  success  of  the 
night ;  Lady  Stamer,  looking  on,  looks  grim  beneath  this 
knowledge ;  Mrs.  Vaudrey  grows  gay  beneath  it.  As -for  the 
colonel  he  takes  it  as  a  matter  of  course ;  who  should  be 
admired,  if  not  his  pretty  Evelyn  ? 

But  Evelyn  herself,  in  spite  of  her  triumph,  is  conscious 
Of  a  sense  of  loss  ;  she  feels  puzzled  too,  and  hurt.  The 
best  men  in  the  room  have  been  figuratively  at  her  feet, 
and  yet,  he — Eaton  has  not  once  asked  her  to  dance.  He, 
her  oldest  friend.  It  is  so  strange,  so  unaccountable.  What 
has  she  done  that  he  should  treat  her  so  ?  It  is  now  very 
perilously  close  to  the  end  of  the  evening,  and  still  he  holds 
aloof,  not  even  deigning,  as  by  chance  they  meet  each 
other  in  room  or  gallery,  to  cast  a  look  at  her. 

A  good  many  people  have  already  taken  their  departure  ; 
the  colonel  amongst  them.  The  fact  that  he  has  gone 
has  made  Evelyn  feel  even  more  lonely.  A  half  wish  that 
she  had  cut  short  her  visit  at  the  Castle  and  gone  with  him 
is  oppressing  her;  and  with  it  a  sense  of  anger  that  ha 
should  have  left  her  so  soon.  If  he  had  waited  she  might 
have  gone  with  him.  But  he  had  been  in  such  a  horrid 
hurry. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  indeed  she  is  unjust  to  the 
poor  colonel,  who  had  come  there  in  the  lowest  spirits  and 
sorely  against  his  will,  simply  to  please  her.  Accustomed 
to  go  to  bed  at  ten  sharp,  he  had  sat  resignedly  on  until 
half-past  cue,  yawning  carefully  but  busily  behind  one  of 


i«S  A  LIFE'S  BEMOHSB. 

the  biggest  hands  In  Europe,  until  his  wife  coming  to  the 
rescue,  had  carried  him  off.  It  had  indeed  gone  so  far 
with  him  that  it  would  have  been  a  case  of  sheer  brutality 
on  the  part  of  any  one  who  had  sought  to  keep  him  longer 
from  the  desired  couch. 

Yes ;  it  will  soon  be  all  over.  Others,  following  the 
example  set  by  the  colonel,  have  vanished  into  the  night, 
and  are  now  several  miles  nearer  their  homes.  The  room 
is  thinning.  The  end  will  come,  and  she  will  not  know  how 
she  has  offended  Eaton.  A  shadow  has  fallen  into  her 
pretty  eyes,  her  lips  tal^e  a  downward  curve.  Making  a 
little  excuse  to  her  partner,  she  dismisses  him, -and  sink- 
ing upon  a  friendly  seat,  lets  a  little  sigh  escape  her. 

The  knowledge  that  some  one  h?s  come  up  behind  her 
and  is  standing  there  close  to  her  without  speaking,  causes 
her  to  turn  and  look  up. 

It  is  Eaton,  at  last. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

'•*  PERHAPS,  now  your  eng?g*ments  are  a  little  slack,  I  may 
fcope  for  a  dance,"  says  h^  regarding  her  with  a  smile  that 
fee  hardly  means  to  be  agreeable. 

The  certainty  thftt  a  swift  warm  colour  has  rushed  into 
her  white  cheeks  so  angers  her  that  the  coldness  with  which 
she  would  naturally  have  answered  him  is  increased  four 
fold. 

"  Too  late  again,"  says  she,  giving  him  the  frugalest  of 
•miles.  "  Twice  in  'Dne  night  to  be,  behind  time  is  to  be 
anfortunate." 

0  Engaged  ?  "  questions  he  with  lifted  brows. 

"No.     Only  tired." 

"Ah!"  He  throvrs  into  this  harmless  monosyllable  an 
amount  of  mea'.img  that  enrages  her.  "Well — of  course — 
\  really  hardly  hoped,  you  know,  for  a  more  favourable 
Answer." 

"  You  did  hot  hope  at  all,  perhaps,"  with  an  indolent 
towering  of  her  lids.  "  If  so,  why  pretend  you  did  ?  " 

"That  is  a  little  rude,  isn't  it  ?" 

«*  Is  it  ?  "  indifferently. 

"  Very  rude,"  with  emphasis  that  suggests  anger, 

"  It  is  very  rude  of  you  to  tell  me  so,"  says  she,  lifting  he* 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE1.  ttf 

eyes  to  his  at  last  with  a  defiant  expression  in  them.  "  Why 
do  you  speak  to  me  like  this."  She  waits,-  as  if  for  his 
answer,  and  gaining  none,  beyond  the  steady  glance  he  gives 
her,  her  whole  mood  conges,  and  sinks  at  once  into  a  bare 
naturalness.  "  Whyxfidn't  you  ask  me  to  dance  ?  "  demands 
she  straightly  and  without  a  suspicion  of  any  arrilre pens'ee. 

"  Why  should  I  ?  It  would  have  been  presumption  on 
my  part.  I  could  see  how  well  amused  you  were.  No 
wonder  you  plead  fatigue  as  an  excuse  for  getting  rid  of  me, 
even  at  this  the  eleventh  hour.  The  flower  of  the  aristoc- 
racy," with  a  grim  laugh,  "  were  at  your  feet.  The  essence 
of  this  year's  wit  and  talent  followed  hard  upon  their  heels, 
and  besides  all  this  you  had  the  wisdom  of  the  past.  What 
was  I  amongst  so  many  ?  I  took  counsel  with  myself  and 
wisely  determined  upon  effacement." 

He  has  thrown  so  much  point  into  that  slight  remark  of 
his  about  the  wisdom  of  age  that  she  catches  it  and  harps 
upon  it. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  age?"  asks  she  with  a  little 
gesture  that  implies  how  scornfully  she  has  cast  aside  all 
his  other  insinuations. 

"  Crawford,"  replies  he  bluntly. 

There  is  a  lengthened  pause.  Once  Miss  D'Arcy  lifts 
her  head  as  if  to  speak,  and  then  refrains  from  words,  as 
though  to  give  expression  to  her  thoughts  is  a  little  difficult. 

"  He  is  not  so  old  as  you  think  him,"  says  she  at  last,  as 
though  driven  to  this  speech  through  a  sense  of  loyulty. 

"  No  ?     How  old  do  you  imagine  I  think  him  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  as  yet  found  time  to  go  into  it,"  says  she  with 
a  slight  shrujj  of  her  shoulders. 

"There  is  so  little  time  for  anything  nowadays,  OJUQ 
shouldn't  blame  you.  Perhaps,  however,  ha  is  not  so  young 
»s  you  think  him." 

"  I  don't  think  him  young,"  with  a  little  frown. 

"  Don't  you  really  ? "  with  a  malevolent  sprightliness. 
<*  I  quite  thought  you  did.  And  no  wonder  too.  To  sec 
him  waltz  was  a  revelation.  It  brought  to  mind  the  Wan% 
dering  Jew ;  the  secret  of  perpetual  youth  and  all  the  rest 
of  it.  He  is  an  astonishing  person.  He  might  pose  as 
almost  any  age.  I  had  regarded  him  as. Merlin,  but  after 
to-night's  capers,  I  must  moderate  my  opinion  by  a  hundred 
years  or  so.  Still  it  seems  a  pity  that  so  wise  and  learned  a 
seignior  as  he  ap^ars  to  be  should  give  way  to  the  frivolities 


'S  REMORSE. 

that  distinguish  this  effete  period.  If  he  must  dance,  why 
not  devote  himself  to  the  dignified  squares?  Looking 
back  through  the  many  decades  he  has  been  privileged  to 
see,  he  must  naturally  regard  our  ungraceful  dances  as  being 
altogether  out  of  it  when  compared  with  the  stately  minuet, 
the " 

"  I  suppose  you  think  you  are  very  amusing,"  says  Miss 
D'Arcy  rising  ruthlessly  and  giving  him  a  glance  that  should 
have  withered  him.  "  Mr.  Crawford  may  be  the  oldest 
man  on  earth  for  all  I  know ;  but  at  least  he  is  a  gentleman." 

"  Which  I  am  not  ?  "  smiling  still,  but  with  pale  lips  and 
angry  eyes. 

"  Why  should  you  say  that  ?" 

"  That  is  what  you  think." 

"You  know  nothing  of  my  thoughts." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  do ;  I  know  some  of  them." 

Matters  might  have  grown  still  more  complicated  but  that 
just  at  this  moment  the  duchess,  who  has  been  speeding 
the  parting  guest,  comes  up  to  them  followed  by  Mr.  Blount. 
She  is  evidently  in  her  element  amongst  these  simple 
country  folk  and  is  looking  as  jolly  as  a  sand-boy. 

"  Been  quite  a  success,  hasn't  it  ? "  says  she  genially, 
including  Evelyn,  whom  she  likes,  in  the  conversation,  but 
really  addressing  herself  to  Stamer.  As  a  rule  she  always 
addresses  herself  to  men.  "  It  has  gone  off  tremendously 
well,  eh?" 

"The  pleasantest  night  I  have  known,"  says  Stamer 
promptly  and  with  enthusiasm.  All  the  enthusiasm  is  meant 
for  Evelyn,  who  receives  it  with  an  impassive  countenance. 

"  Such  fun  as  it's  been  !  "  says  the  duchess  with  a  merry 
little  laugh.  "And  I'm  glad  that  everybody  has  been 
pleased." 

"  Everybody,  except  Miss  Morley,"  says  Mr.  Blount  in  a 
tone  of  reproach. 

"  Oh  !  as  for  her,  poor  girl,  if  she  will  come  gowned  like 
that  and  with  such  manners,  how  is  one  to  help  her  ?  "  says 
the  duchess  with  a  shake  of  her  big  head.  "  Society  hasn't 
arranged  for  that  sort  yet'' 

*'  She  has  a  perfect  skin." 

'  **  Yes,  I  know*.  But  what  a  waste  of  good  material  to 
give  it  to  her." 

"Still  it's  something  to  look  at,"  says  Mr.  Blount  mildly. 
many  of  'em  are  horrid.     There's  Lady  Mildred 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  13, 

Haversnam  for  example !  Makes  one  creep  to  look  at  her. 
Complexion  like  oatmeal,  by  Jove  ! 

" But  she's  so  good"  says  the  duchess  emphatically,  as 
though  a  little  correction  is  necessary. 

"  Oh,  I  daresay,"  says  Mr.  Blount  unabashed.  "  They 
roust  be  something,  you  know.  If  they're  handsome, 
they're  bad,  and  if  they're  ugly  they're  gcrod.  I  don't 
believe  in  that,  you  know.  Lady  Mildred  looks  as  if  butter 
wouldn't  melt  in  her  mouth,  but  I've  heard " 

The  duchess  puts  up  a  warning  finger. 

"  You  see  we  none  of  us  care  for  your  hearings,  Batty," 
says  Stamer  with  a  short  laugh. 

"  Well,  anyhow,  it's  a  pity  that  all  saints  must  be  hideous," 
says  Mr.  Blount,  who  is  equal  to  most  emergencies.  "  One 
hears  of  the  beauty  of  holiness,  but  where  is  it?  Lady 
Mildred's  out  of  that  running  anyway." 

"  You  are  mundane,"  says  the  duchess  with  an  irresistible 
laugh ;  "you  will  not  look  beyond  the  cloud  that  hides  our 
petty  failings.  If  you  did  you  would  see  purity  and  charity 
and  faith,  and  all  such  lovely  things.  But  to  come  back 
to  the  more  prosaic  present,  if  you  will  not  admire  solid 
worth,  you  will  surely  admire  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekcs  !  " 

"  Oh  !  how  pretty  she  has  looked  to-night,"  says  Evelyn 
eagerly.  The  tribute  to  the  charms  of  Mrs.  Wyldrig- 
Weekes  is  so  honest  that  the  duchess  regards  her  with 
interest.  "  And  what  a  gown." 

"A  heavenly  frock,"  says  Mr.  Blount  genially.  "A  per- 
fect sweetmeat.  One  longed  to  devour  it.  It  was  indeed 
so  small  that  one  could  easily  get  it  down.  There  was  a 
good  deal  of  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes  if  one  remembers  cor- 
rectly, but  very  little  of  the  frock.  Still,  what  there  was  !  " 

"  Was  very  special,"  supplements  Stamer  mildly.  "  Much 
should  be  conceded  to  that." 

"  Not  much,  but  certainly  a  little,"  says  the  duchess ;  she< 
moves  away  as  she  speaks,  but  looks  back  ^gain  kindly  at 
Evelyn. 

"  You  look  tired,"  says  she.  "  Why  wait  for  the  very 
last  ?  Go  to  bed,  dear  child," 

**  Thank  you,"  says  Evelyn  with  a  fain',  smile ;  she  has 
grasped  the  idea  with  ^vidity,  Ob !  to  be  alone^  to  be 
free  from  those  who  come  ami  go.  She  g^ves  he<  hostess 
a  little  gracious  inclination  ?xid>  Stakes  a  step  or  two  to 
Wards  the  nearest  doorway. 


i;p  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

"  Good-night,"  says  Mr.  Crawford,  holding  out  his  hand 
He  has  come  to  them  without  their  knowing  it,  and  nom 
stands  talking  to  Evelyn  and  still  holding  her  hand. 

"I  say,  she  seems  to  affect  old  'Tot-and-go-one,' "  says 
Mr.  Blount,  giving  Stamer  a  playful  nudge.  It  is  badly 
received.  There  are  indeed  moments  when  Mr.  Blount's 
good  spirits  grow  to  the  height  of  aggressiveness. 

"You  heard  the  advice  the  duchess  gave  to  Miss  D'Arcy," 
says  Stamer  with  a  lowering  brow.  "I'd  advise  you  to 
adopt  it.  Go  to  bed  !  " 

"Not  if  I  know  it,"  says  Mr.  Blpunt  cheerfully.  "I'm 
good  for  many  a  smoke  yet.  Go  to  bed  yourself,  and  take 
viy  advice.  You're  in  about  as  bad  form  as  ever  I  met. 
Who's  been  sitting  on  you  ?  " 

"  Pshaw,"  says  Stamer,  turning  impatiently  away. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

To  turn  away,  however,  is  only  to  meet  Mr.  Blount  later 
on  in  the  smoking-room,  where  that  youth  greets  him  with 
6.  cheerful  laugh. 

"  How  are  you,  Dynamite  ?  "  says  he ;  "  given  up  explod- 
ing yet  ?  You're  a  credit  to  your  year,  you  are ;  no  end  of 
*  go  '  in  you" 

It  is  quite  plain  that  Mr.  Blount  has  himself  been  "going 
it "  amongst  the  champagne  bottles,  mildly  as  yet,  but  with 
a  generous  promise  as  to  the  future,  so  far  as  this  night 
extends.  As  a  rule,  it  must  be  conceded  to  him,  he  is 
abstemious,  but  on  this  occasion  only — led  astray  by  the 
tableaux  no  doubt,  or  demoralized  by  his  "  tights  " — he 
has  given  way,  and  fallen  a  prey  to  vice  in  the  shape  of 
sundry  drinks,  all  fatally  mixed. 

"  I  wonder  where  you're  going,"  says  his  cousin  with  a 
rather  disgusted  glance  at  him.  "  To  the  pump,  I  hope. 
Do  you  all  the  good  in  the  world." 

"Awful  rude  chap  that,"  says  Mr.  Blount  with  serious 
gravity,  turning  to  his  companion  and  indicating  Eaton  by 
a  wave  of  his  thumb,  Eaton  having  moved  away  a  step  or 
two,  but  being  scarcely  out  of  hearing,  "  Tell  you  what," 
laying  hold  of  the  companion's  button-hole  by  way  of  being 
emphatic,  but  in  reality  to  steady  himself.  "He  don't 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE;  ijj 

know  now  to  conduct  himself,  he  don't.  You  should  have 
seen  him  a  while  ago  with  the  loveliest  girl  in  the  world 
You  know  her,  Raymond,  lovely  girl !  Miss  D'Arcy,  don't 
ye  know,  little  girl,  big  eyes " 

"  Look  here,  Blount ! "  says  Captain  Stamer,  turning 
suddenly  and  advancing  on  Batty  with  violent  anger  both 
in  voice  and  gesture.  "  You  will  drop  that  topic.  Do  you 
hear  !  You  will  not  mention  that  name  again  in  this  room 
at  any  time.  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

His  nostrils  dilate  as  he  speaks,  and  it  is  evident  to  the 
man  standing  next  Batty  that  he  is  subduing  his  temper 
by  a  supreme  effort  only. 

"  Oh !  get  along,"  says  Mr.  Blount  vaguely.  And  as 
Stamer  gets  along  he  gives  vent  to  his  feelings  audibly. 
"  Beastly  temper,"  says  he.  "  Just  like  all  the  Stamers. 
Just  like  old  woman.  Know .  old  woman  ?  Confounded 
bore  she  is.  I  saw  her  one  day  do  a  thing  that " 

But  here  he  is  hustled  along  by  the  man  in  attendance, 
and  the  last  unique  anecdote  about  Lady  Stamer  is  lost  to 
posterity. 

Eaton,  with  a  sense  of  dejection,  moves  to  the  farther 
end  of  the  room  and  flings  himself  upon  a  low  lounge. 
His  thoughts  are  bitter;  the  more  so  that  they  are  scarcely 
definable.  He  had  desired  to  dance  with  Evelyn  all  the 
evening,  and  has  only  himself  to  thank  that  his  desire  was 
not  fulfilled.  From  that  first  moment  when  she  had  told 
him  he  was  "too  late,"  because  of  her  engagement  to 
Crawford,  he  had  allowed  distrust  of  her  to  enter  his  heart. 
Not  distrust  so  far  as  he  himself  was  concerned,  as  no  love 
passages  had  ever  occurred  between  them,  but  distrust  of 
her  honesty,  her  uprightness,  her  loyalty  towards  her  better 

self.  That  old  man  was  rich,  could  she — could  she . 

Women-— even  good  women — had  sometimes  done  such 
things. 

This  faint  disbelief  in  her  had  been  fanned  into  a  hot 
flame  during  the  evening.  There  was  that  moment  in  the 
garden  when  he  had  had  his  arm  round  her  without  repulse. 
It  might  have  been  to  fasten  her  cloak — it  might  not.  It 
hardly,  bad  as  it  was,  hurt  him  so  much  as  the  whispers  that 
stirred  the  air  wherever  he  moved.  "Such  a  match  for 
her  !  "  "A  girl  without  a  penny  1 "  "  He  was  perfectly 
infatuated  ! "  "  She  had  only  to  say  the  word."  "  Those  old 
men  always  bowed  at  the  shrine  of  extreme  youth,  &c," 


fc|4  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

All  this  cut  him  to  the  heart.  Yet  why  he  hardly  yet 
knew.  She  was  so  old  a  friend.  He  had  known  her  as 
child,  as  girl,  as — —  He  hardly  realized  that  she  was  now 
A  woman. 

The  fact  that  his  cigar  has  burned  down  to  his  fingers 
causes  him  to  wake  from  his  unpleasant  reverie.  He 
starts  into  a  more  upright  position,  and  a  knowledge  that 
Bartholomew  is  once  again  distinguishing  himself. 

That  doughty  person  has  just  been  holding  a  lively  argu- 
ment with  a  rather  smart  young  subaltern  from  the  cavalry 
barracks  at  Uxton,  about  the  service,  of  which  it  would  be 
plain  to  the  meanest  capacity  that  Mr.  Blount  knows  abso- 
lutely nothing. 

Being,  however,  in  such  an  elevated  mood  that  all  things 
seem  possible  to  him,  and  all  human  knowledge  his  cwn,  he 
rights  his  way  vigorously  through  the  most  unconquerable 
statements,  proclaiming  himself  victor  after  each  crushing 
defeat.  The  cavalry  man  is  growing  irate ;  Batty  more 
bumptious.  He  has  now  forgotten  himself  completely  in 
the  heat  of  the  battle,  and  has  begun  to  pound  generously 
upon  the  table  before  him.  He  has  also  forgotten  how 
many  brandies  and  sodas  he  has  imbibed — which  is  fatal  to 
his  manners. 

At  last,  matters  coming  to  a  climax,  the  cavalry  man  rises, 
and  casting  an  indignant  glance  at  him  flings  himself  across 
the  room  and  subsides  into  an  armchair — and  murderous 
inclinations. 

Thus  deserted,  Mr.  Blount  sinks  into  a  pleasing  reverie. 
It  is  so  soothing  that  it  leads  him  up  to  the  point  of  a  rousing 
snore,  when  unhappily  a  name  catching  his  attention  he 
grows  once  more  terribly  alive. 

"  The  younger  Miss  Balsam  is  the  best  dancer  I  know." 

"  Ah  !  there's  a  girl  for  you,"  says  Mr.  Blount,  rising  with 
almost  tearful  enthusiasm,  and  straightway  falling  into  Sir 
Bertram's  lap, 

"I  say — look  where  you're  going  to,  will  you?  "  says  Sir 
Bertram,  with  lazy  annoyance. 

"Awful  good  girl  that,"  goes  on  Mr.  Blount,  beautifully 
regardless  of  the  late  disaster.  He  makes  a  tculy  remark- 
able journey  across  the  room  to  where  the  younger  Miss 
Balsam's  approver  is  standing.  "  I'd  shoot  fellow  said 
word  'gainst  that  girl.  She's  awful  fond  of  me — that  girl. 
She  gave  me  flower  out  of  her  bouquet.  Bewful  bouquet. 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  135 

111  cherish  it,"  slapping  his  breast  to  the  utter  destruction 
of  the  flower  if  it  das  repose  there,  and  this  time  nearly 
taking  a  header  into  the  fireplace.  "  Cherish  it  f  rever." 

"  Oh,  come  now,  Batty  !  that's  regularly  going  it,  you 
know,"  says  Sir  Bertram.  "  Up  to  this  I  have  always  been 
able  to  admire  your  strict  adherence  to  truth.  Don't  deviate 
from" the  right  path.  Hitherto  it  has  always  been,  'she 
allowed  me  to  take  a  flower.'  Don't  you  think  you  ought  to 
keep  yourself  to  that  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.  No.  Gave  it  to  me,  I  said.  Gave  it  to  me, 
it  is.  Any  man  contr'dict  me?"  with  a  warlike  glare  all 
round — a  sort  of  come-on  with-a-rush  expression,  that  is 
perhaps  a  trifle  marred  by  the  fact  that  one  lock  of  his  hair 
on  the  -right  side  has  taken  upon  itself  to  stand  perfectly 
upright.  It  is  impossible^  to  say  why,  but  it  at  once  gives 
him  the  air  of  an  angry  cockatoo. 

"  We'd  be  afraid,  Batty,"  says  a  dark  young  man  from 
behind  a  cloud  of  smoke. 

"  I  have  it  here,"  says  Mr.  Blount,  again  slapping  his 
breast,  and  this  time  finding  himself  most  unexpectedly 
perched  on  the  knee  of  an  elderly  and  distinguished  general, 
who  gives  him  a  furious  push.  "Cherish  it  f'rever  !" 

"  It's  a  long  time,"  says  the  dark  young  man,  with  a. 
profound  sigh. 

"  GenTmen."    says    Mr.    Blount,    gazing    round    him, 
"  there's  only  one  thing  I  regret.     That  I  can't  love 
girl  as  she  loves  me.     Would  if  I  could,  but  can't 
is,  there's  and'r  girl !  " 

Tragic  start  on  the  part  of  dark  young  roan,  and  sudden 
attention  on  the  part  of  Eaton  Staraer. 

"  Lovely  girl.  Alien  land,  but  lovely  girl.  Enemies  to 
ole  England,  but  land  of  lovely  girl  for  all  that.  I'm 
willing  to  forgive  her  that.  Some  of  you  know  her, 
genTmen — some  o'  you  don't ;  but  no  names.  Smoking 
room,  ye  know  ;  h:id  form.  But  when  I  say  she's  Irish  you 
will  unnerstan'  that " 

"  Batty,"  says  Eaton  Stamer,  flinging  his  cigar  into  a  tray, 
and  advancing  on  his  cousin  with  a  pale  face.  "  You  have 
bad  too  much  champagne.  Go  to  bed." 

"Go  to  bed  yourself,"  roars  Mr.  Blount  indignantly, 
91  Champagne  1  Who  said  champagne,  eh?  You're  drunk, 
fir — that's  v/hat  you  are." 

*'  Quite  right.    Go  it,  Batty.    So  he  is.    Any  one  can  see 


ij«  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

it  by  his  eye.     We  can  all  see  it.  For  shame,  Stamer!    Oh| 
fie,  fie!" 

"You're  shamefully  drunk,  sir,"  says  Mr.  Blount  with 
righteous  disgust.  Here  the  dark  young  man,  unable  to 
resist  it,  gives  Stamer  a  slight  trip,  that  lands  the  latter 
rather  heavily  in  an  armchair. 

"Loo'  at  him!  loo'  at  him!"  exclaims  Mr.  Blount 
triumphantly,  pointing  him  out  to  public  scorn  with  a  rather 
uncertain  forefinger.  "  Oh !  what  a  horrid,  sight  he  is. 
Y'ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  Eaton.  VVha  '11  your 
"mother  say  ?  "  Immense  sensation  ! 

"  Wha'  indeed  !"  says  the  dark  young  man. 

"  Go  'way,  sir,"  continues  Mr.  Blount,  still  overflowing 
Rath  virtuous  anger.  "  You're  not  fit  for  'specable  sc'ity. 
Go  'way.  Bed's  bes'  place  for  _)•<?«." 

"  So  it  is,"  says  Eaton  promptly.  "  But  in  my  present 
condition  I  don't  quite  see  how  I  am  to  get  there.  Will  you 
play  the  good  Samaritan,  Batty  ?  "  It  seems  to  him  that  here 
is  a  good  opportunity  of  getting  rid  of  Batty  and  his  maudlin 
reminiscences  of  scenes  and  people  best  forgotten  in  his 
present  state.  Just  a  moment  since  there  had  been  a  very 
agony  of  fear  in  his  mind  lest  her  name  should  have  been 
desecrated — should  have  been  uttered  in  all  this  smoke, 
and 

"  Anything  for  frien',"  says  Mr-.  Blount  nobly ;  "  though 
I  mus'  say,  Eaton,  I  har'ly  like  to  be  seen  with  you  in  your 
presen'  state;  it's,"  virtuously,  "not  a  nice  state  !  " 

"  I  am  quite  alive  to  it,"  says  Eaton  penitently.  Under 
pretence  of  being  taken  in  charge  by  him,  he  tucks  his  arm 
into  Mr.  Blount's,  and  having  got  a  firm  clutch  of  him 
convoys  that  belligerent  youth  through  the  room,  out  of  the 
door,  and  upstairs  to  his  room.  On  the  threshold  he  gives 
him  a  gentle  push  and,  closing  the  door,  leaves  him  to  the 
tleep  of  the  just. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"  CHUCK,  chuck,  chuck  ! "  calls  Miss  D'Arcy  at  the  top  of 
her  musical  voice,  that  has  just  a  suspicion  of  the  brogue 
about  it. 
The  world  is  two  days  older;  yesterday  Miss  D'Arcy'i 


'A  LITE'S  REMOfWS. '  197 

vfsft  to  the  Castle  came  to  an  end ;  to-day  she  is  once  more 
resting  in  the  bosom  of  her  family~hardly  resting,  however. 

"  Chuck,  chuck,  chuck ! "  cries  she,  and  not  in  vain  she 
pleads.  The  words — or  sounds,  rather — have  hardly  passed 
her  lips  when  twenty-six  hens  and  fourteen  ducks,  one  cock 
and  a  drake,  rush  simultaneously  from  every  outhouse  and 
barn  in  the  yard  an  "1  scurry  to  where  she  is  standing,  a  plate 
of  broken  bread  in  '.or  han^v 

She  is  dressed  for  the  fray.  A  pale  blue  cotton  gown 
enwraps  her  dainty  figure — a  frock  rather  the  worse  for  its 
many  tubbings  ;  a  huge  white  hat,  scarcely  immaculate  as  to 
the  brim,  covers  her  head.  The  consumptive  droop  that 
time  has  taught  it  to  take  on  the  left  side  is  now  so  pro- 
nounced that  to  look  at  you  she  has  to  tilt  her  head  to  the 
right  side  and  glance  up  at  you  from  under  it.  Even 
under  these  equivocal  circumstances  she  is  adorable. 

So  thinks  Mr.  Crawford,  who,  having  heard  at  the  hall-door 
that  "  Miss  Evelyn  "  is  in  the  yard,  has  swifcly  betaken  him- 
self there,  and  is  now  declaring  himself  to  her,  hat  in  hand. 

"  Put  it  on — put  it  on  !  "  cries  she  carefully.  "  The  sun 
is  surpassing  itself  to-day.  Did  you  see  the  colonel — or 
auntie  ?  No  ?  Oh  1  "—preparing  to  drop  the  broken  bread 
en  masse  upon  her  dependants,  who  are  gobbling  and  cackling 
at  her  feet—"  I'll  take  you  to  them." 

"  I  beg  >%u  won't,"  says  Mr.  Crawford,  the  ungracious 
truth  bursting  from  him  in  an  unwary  moment — a  moment 
that  seems  to  threaten  the  heavenly  chance  of  a  tete-d-lcfe 
with  her ;  "  that  is — er — it  would  be  cruel,  wouldn't  it,  to 
deprive  these  hungry  creatures  of  their  food  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  was  going  to  give  it  to  them  all  together,"  says 
Miss  D'Arcy ;  "  but  they're  so  greedy  that  if  I  once  dropped 
it  the 'old  ones  would  take  everything  and  leave  the  little 
clicks  without  a  crumb.  If" — looking  at  him  hopefully— 
"  you  are  not  really  in  a  hurry  to  see  the  colonel,  I'll  stay 
and  give  it  to  them  by  degrees." 

"  I'm  in  no  hurry,"  say&  Mr.  Crawford.  Washington 
himself  couldn't  have  outdone  him  this  time. 

"Now,  watch  that  old  greyhen,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy.  She 
flings,  as  she  speaks,  a  bit  of  bread  to  the  veteran  in  question, 
and  in  a  second  a  very  street  rabble  of  hens  are  upon  it  and 
her,  trying  to  despoil  her  of  her  rightful  due.  The  old  grey 
one,  however,  sticks  to  her  prize,  and  picking  it  up  makes 
off  with  it  to  a  distr.nl  dunghill,  legs  flying  in  all  directions 


138  A  LIFE'S  EEMORSE. 

and  tail  half-fanned.    She  is  pursued  by  the  vigilant  army, 
who  seem  determined  to  get  that  bit  of  bread  or  die. 

Presently,  seeing  a  chance  of  getting  a  moment's  pick  at 
it  before  her  pursuers  can  come  up  with  her,  the  old  grey 
hen  lays  down  her  treasure  and  dabs  at  it  with  her  beak. 
One  or  two  hasty  morsels  are  thus  obtained,  and  she  is 
beginning  to  grasp  the  delights  of  it  when — chut ! — they 
have  come  up  with  her.  "  The  Philistines  are  upon  thee, 
Samson ! " 

Up  goes  the  cherished  crust  again,  held  tightly  in  her 
beak,  and  away  once  more  she  flies  for  her  life,  the  enemy 
in  full  cry  behind  her. 

To  lay  down  the  bread  again  and  have  another  peck  at 
it  to  be  again  waylaid — to  snatch  it  once  more,  and  once 
more  distance  her  adversaries  only  to  be  overtaken  in  the 
middle  of  another  meal — is  the  work  of  the  next  two 
minutes.  Now  she  is  nearly  caught ;  now  her  old  legs 
stand  her  in  good  stead ;  again  round  the  water-butt  that 
stands  in  the  middle  of  the  yard  she  dashes,  making  a  last 
attempt  at  solitude  and  dinner,  when,  alas !  the  big  white 
cock — the  lord  of  the  farmyard — joins  in  the  chase,  seizes 
the  coveted  morsel,  and,  regardless  of  the  cries  of  the  old 
grey  mother,  deliberately  bestows  it  on  his  favourite  sultana, 
whilst  the  others  look  on,  and,  joining  cause  with  the  robbed 
one,  seek  at  every  chance  to  rend  it  from  her. 

Nothing  so  greedy  as  a  hen  except  an  ex-Cabinet 
minister. 

Here  Miss  D'Arcy  sees  fit  to  rush  to  the  rescue. 

"Oh,  aren't  they  disgraceful  I "  cries;  she,  and  then 
descends  with  wrathful  visage  right  upon  the  struggling 
crowd,  scattering  consternation  as  she  goes.  "  Hi !  hi ! " 
cries  she  ;  "  cush  !  cush  !  "  The  language  is  evidently  one 
borrowed  from  the  darkest  ages,  but,  strange  to  say,  it  is 
one  known  to  the  hen.  This  might  establish  a  belief  in  the 
intelligence  of  the  hen  that  has  long  lain  dormant.  The 
hen,  as  a  rule,  is  not  regarded  as  a  creature  overflowing 
with  intellect,  though,  in  the  face  of  the  fact  that  she,  and 
she  alone,  can  satisfactorily  uproot  an  entire  garden  in  the 
course  of  one  half  hour,  that  theory  seems  to  fall  to  the 
ground.  It  would  take  me  a  whole  day  to  do  it — or  you. 

"  Oh  !  did  you  ever  see  such  wretches  ? "  cries  Miss 
D'Arcy  breathlessly,  her  pretty  face  grown  pink,  the  old  hat 
now  being  much  to  one  side.  The  sultana  has  held  on  to 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  139 

the  crust,  and  Is  leading  her  a  dance  amongst  the  carts,  and 
ploughs,  and  harrows  that,  as  a  rule,  adorn  the  centre  of  the 
colonel's  yard.  Mr.  Crawford  has  joined  in  the  chase,  and 
is  trying  to  circumvent  the  sultana ;  but  in  vain  is  his  weak 
endeavour.  Right  under  his  legs  she  slips,  cackling  furiously, 
though  how  she  does  it  with  the  crust  in  her  mouth  is  more 
than  mortal  knoweth.  This  shows  the  artfulness  of  the  hen. 
There  is  really  hardly  anything  she  cannot  do  in  the  aggra- 
vating line. 

"  Now — now  you  have  her !  Oh,  why  didn't  you  catch 
her  ? "  says  Miss  D'Arcy,  so  reproachfully  that  Crawford 
feels  he  has  for  ever  and  all  lowered  himself  in  her  esteem. 
"  There  she  was  in  your  very  hands,  and  you  missed  her  I 
Oh,  now — NOW.  There  she  is  ! — Here  she  is,  in  the  corner ! 
Hah  !  " — making  a  dive,  and  succeeding  at  last  in  catching 
the  sultana,  and  taking  the  crust  from  her.  "Now  learn 
to  have  proper  manners !  Little  wretch — little  demon ! 
What  did  you  mean  by  it?  Oh  !j" — struggling  for  breath 
and  for  laughter — "  what  a  chase  it  has  been.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 
you  didn't  anticipate  this  when " 

She  trips  over  a  stone  as  she  speaks ;  Crawford,  frightened, 
puts  out  his  arms  and  saves  her  from  a  fall ;  still  holding 
her  (oh,  what  a  little  light  and  lovely  burden !)  he  g5o\vs 
astonished  and  a  little  alarmed  by  her  silence,  and  looking 
under  the  old,  old  hat,  finds  her  still  speechless  with  laughter. 

Her  merry  eyes  meet  his ;  the  dewy  parted  lips,  rose-red, 
smile  up  at  him.  What  a  sweet,  sweet  child  it  isl  A 
heavy  sigh  breaks  from  Mr.  Crawford's  heart. 

"  I  thought — I  feared  you  were  hurt,"  says  he  gravely. 

"  Oh,  no,"  standing  up  as  slim  and  straight  as  a  willow 

wand.  "  It  was  only  that  stone — that "  she  comes  to 

a  dead  stop;  her  eyes  grow  large,  and  fixed  upon  the 
opposite  side  of  the  yard.  "  Why !  There's  Eaton,"  says 
she. 

It  is  Eaton  indeed.  He-is  standing  perfectly  it  ill,  gazing 
back  at  her.  He  is  quite  a  long  way  off,  but  not  so  far 
that  the  late  tableau  could  be  unseen  by  him.  A  sudden 
rush  of  the  most  unjust  anger  against  Crawford  fills  her 
breast  for  an  instant ;  an  instant  only.  The  touch  of  rugged 
inborn  honesty  that  characterizes  her  comes  to  her  help  at 
once,  and  forbids  the  petulance  she  might  have  encouraged. 
Mr.  Crawford  had  saved  her  from  a  fall.  He  had  done  her 
a  service,  A  person  looking  on,  and  not  understanding, 


l{»  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

might  of  course .    But  even  if  Eaton  did  so  mfsundei* 

stand,  what  was  it  to  him  ?  Nothing.  Nothing  at  all !  Why 
should  she  consider  him  ?  Why  should  she  fear  his  "•  . 
Ftar  I  Why  should  she  fear  any  one  ? 

To  say  a  thing  takes  time,  to  think  it  but  the  flash  of  a 
second. 

"How  d'ye  do?"  cries  Miss  D'Arcy  gaily,  calling  out 
to  Stamer  with  perhaps  a  slightly  exaggerated  friendliness. 
It  is  not  always  easy  to  look  as  innocent  as  one  feels. 

"  How  d'ye  do  ?  "  calls  Stamer  back  again,  but  without 
making  a  movement  in  her  direction.  He  waves  his  hand, 
lifts  his  hat,  and  continues  his  way  to  the  house.  He  had 
come  in  by  the  yard  gate,  a  short  cut  for  the  colonel's 
familiars.  It  is  to  be  presumed  that  Stamer's  salutation 
was  meant  for  both  Evelyn  and  her  companion,  but  his  eyes 
had  been  directed  towards  Evelyn  only,  and  not  friendly 
eyes  either. 

"  You  will  find  the  colonel  in  his  den,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy 
with  a  final  attempt  at  unconcern  that  fails  miserably. 

Thanks— thanks.  Don't  let  me  put  you  out.  I  dare- 
say I'll  find  him,"  says  Captain  Stamer  with  overpowering 
anxiety  to  save  her  trouble.  He  moves  on  again,  but  looks 
back  when  he  comes  to  the  corner,  as  though  compelled  to 
do  so  very  much  against  his  will  by  some  hidden  force. 

"  Marian  is  in  the  drawing-room,"  says  he  in  a  tone  that 
he  fondly  but  erroneously  believes  to  be  nothing  if  not 
amicable.  He  waves  his  hand  again,  determined  to  be 
pleasant  to  the  last,  but  once  out  of  sight  a  frown  settles 
on  his  brow.  He  had  come  down  to-day — had  entered  by 
the  yard  way  expecting,  hoping,  to  find  Evelyn  as  usual 
feeding  her  chicks,  and .  Well,  so  he  had  found  her  ! 

It  is  really  scandalous  that  her  people  should  let  her  drift 
into  complications  with  that  man.  A  man  a  world  too  old 
for  her.  A  man  of  whom  nobody  knew  anything  except  that 
he  belonged  to  the  Suffolk  Crawfords.  It  is  all  very  well  to 
belong  to  a  decent  family,  but  what  of  the  man  himself— 
his  antecedents,  bis  character?  That  hang-dog  look  of  his 
would  condemn  him  anywhere.  Good  heavens,  would  a 
man  whose  character  would  bear  inspection  be  so  deadly 
silent  about  himself,  his  past,  his  present?  Yet,  after 
all,  who  had  asked  him  a  question  ?  Who  had  sought  to 
probe  the  secrets  of  his  life  ?  Not  one.  Stamer  walking 
along  with  discontent  growing  in  his  breast  is  compelled  to 


A  LIFE'S  EEMORSE.  14! 

acknowledge  this  truth ;  not  without  a  saving  clause,  how- 
ever, by  which  he  may  still  cling  to  his  disbelief  in  this 
stranger  who  has  fallen  into  their  midst  from  heaven  knows 
where.  Would  a  man  guiltless  of  unpleasant  passages  in 
his  past  be  so  wrapped  up  in  an  armour  of  reserve  of  such 
threefold  strength  ?  A  thousand  times,  no. 

Still  full  of  the  darkest  surmisings  about  Crawford,  he 
enters  the  house,  to  find  Marian  delighting  Mrs.  D'Arcy 
with  little  kindly  bits  of  gossip  about  the  Castle,  as  well  as 
she  can,  considering  that  Mr.  Blount,  who  has  dropped  in 
casually,  is  also  most  eager  to  impart  his  information  on 
the  subject. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

MEANTIME  Evelyn  has  been  faring  but  badly.  As  Eaton 
turned  that  corner  the  smile  died  from  her  face. 

"  Come,"  says  she,  now  turning  to  Crawford,  who  is  quite 
unconscious  of  the  smouldering  fires  in  two  young  breasts. 
"  Come,  we  must  make  haste.  Marian  is  in  the  drawing- 
room  ;  she  will  be  wondering  where  I  am."  And  here  she 
looks  up  at  Crawford  in  a  little  scared  sort  of  way.  "  Was 
I — am  I — looking  very  untidy  ?  "  asks  she,  putting  up  her 
bands  to  her  head  in  a  rather  distracted  fashion. 

He:  manner  is  confidential.  She  is  evidently  waiting 
breathless  for  his  decision.  He,  not  catching  the  thread 
that  lies  beneath,  feels  his  heart  beat  the  faster  for  this 
sweet  token  of  her  friendship  for  him.  To  him  it  seems 
that  she  is  anxious  to  look  her  best  for  Marian.  Alas  1 
Marian  is  not  just  now  in  one  of  her  thoughts. 

41  You  look — all  right,"  says  he,  cursing  himself  inwardly 
in  that  his  long  seclusion  from  society  has  taught  him  no 
gentler  ways  of  speech.  Oh,  to  be  a  courtier  of  the  olden 
days  for  just  this  once  !  Had  he  known  it,  however,  Miss 
D'Arcy  is  far  better  satisfied  with  his  blunt  approval  than 
though  he  had  poured  forth  on  her  a  flood  of  courtly  cfom- 
pliment. 

"  And  my  hair  ?  "  says  she.  "  It  is  rough  now,  isn't  it  ? 
It's  always  a  worry  more  or  less,  but,"  with  a  nervous  laugh, 
"after  that  chase  of  ours " 

"  I  can  see  no  fault,"  says  he. 

"  Not  really  ?  "  piesaing  down  the  rebellious  locks  with 


S4*  A  LIFE'S  REMOKSE. 

both  small  brown  hands,  and  giving  him  as  reward  for  Ms 
comfortable  opinion  a  brilliant  smile.  "  Well,  come  along. 
But,"  stopping  short,  "  this  bib  now  " — indicating  the  huge 
apron  that  envelops  her  small  person — "this  won't  do, 
eh?" 

"  I  should  think  Miss  Vandeleur,  being  such  a  friend, 
would  not  mind  the  bib,"  says  he,  laughing,  as  much  at  her, 
as  at  the  childish  title  for  the  homely  garment  that  covers 
her. 

"  Marian  ?  "  says  she  vaguely,  as  if  not  quite  understand- 
ing— and  then  fortunately  recovers  herself.  "  Oh  ! "  says 
she  by  way  of  giving  herself  time  to  think  of  her  next  move. 
"  Marian  !  She  wouldn't  care,  but — it's  horrid  to  be  dirty 
at  any  time ;  and  that  last  skirmish  has  spoiled  its  pristine 
beauty,  hasn't  it?"  holding  up  a  corner  of  the  apron  that 
indeed  is  considerably  the  worse  for  the  engagement  now 
happily  at  an  end.  But  even  victors  suffer  sometimes. 
"  Good  heavens !  It  is  a  perfect  rag,"  says  she.  "  He 
— she — they  are  all  in  the  drawing-room,  and  they  will  be 
staring  at  the  door  until  I  come.  Mr.  Crawford,"  turning 
upon  him  with  a  little  burst  of  audacious  coquetry,  "do 
you  love  me  ?  " 

It  is  so  sudden  that  Crawford  falls  back  before  it. 
Fortunately  she  has  not  calculated  on  an  answer.  She  has 
not  indeed  taken  him  into  consideration  in  a  serious  sense 
at  all. 

"Because  if  you  do,"  says  she,  "you  can  save  me.  Run 
into  the  drawing-room,  say  anything  you  like  first,  but  assure 
them  afterwards  that  I  am  coming.  Oh  !  you  will !  How 
good  of  you !  But  stay" —  frantically  this,  as  she  sees  him 
prepared  to  fly  through  the  yard  to  do  her  bidding — "wait 
one  moment,  just  to  untie  this  string,  will  you?  "  indicating 
by  a  wriggling  of  her  neck  the  long  tapes  of  the  body  part 
of  "  the  bib  "  that  she,  with  both  her  hands,  has  failed  to 
undo.  "  Oh  i  it's  grown  into  a  beastly  knot,"  says  she,  still 
struggling  with  the  tapes  with  both  arms  stretched  over  her 
head  tc  the  back  of  her  neck.  "  Just  for  aggravation's  sake, 
I  do  believe.  You'll  be  able  to  manage  it,  and  do  hurry, 
won't  you  ?  " 

She  leans  towards  him,  and  bends  her  shapely  neck. 
There  seems  to  be  no  smallest  doubt  in  her  mind  as  to  his 
being  able  to  free  her  from  the  obnoxious  "  bib." 

Crawford,  trembling  for  his  reputation,  takes  the  knot  in 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  143 

fcis  fingers.  It  might  in  itself  have  been  an  easy  job  to  undo 
it,  but  when  the  eyes  obstinately  wander  to  tiny  rippling 
curls  that  lie  round  a  soft  white  neck — to  the  tender,  dainty 
skin  on  which  those  curls  lie,  the  untying  of  the  simplest 
knot  becomes  a  task  impossible  as  that  of  Sisyphus. 

Crawford's  hand  trembles,  yet  it  is  with  more  expedition 
than  a  younger  man  might  have  used  that  he  brings  his 
work  to  completion.  To  linger  purposely  over  it  would  have 
seemed  to  him  an  unpardonable  crime.  She  had  trusted 
him.  She  had  been  sure  that  he  would  help  her.  Her 
quick,  sweet  confidence  in  him  is  not  to  be  falsely  trans- 
lated, or  abused. 

"  Oh !  you  have  done  it ! "  cries  she  joyously.  "  Oh,  you 
are  good !  And  now  go  to  the  drawing-room,  and  make 
an  excuse  for  me." 

The  string  round  her  waist  she  rapidly  unties.  The 
"  bib  "  now  is  in  her  hand.  She  flings  it  to  him. 

"  Catch  that !  throw  it  anywhere  ! "  cries  she,  and  swift 
as  an  arrow  from  its  bow,  she  flies  from  him,  and  disappears 
in  the  direction  of  the  house,  leaving  him  possessor  of  one 
huge  cross-barred  apron,  and  thoughts  too  confusedly  happy 
to  be  altogether  satisfactory. 

He  arrives  at  the  drawing-room  door  almost  as  she  does, 
and  consequently  they  enter  the  room  together. 

"  Oh,  here  you  are ! "  cries  Mr.  Blount  cheerfully. 
"Thought  you  had  succeeded  in  losing  yourself;  and 
Crawford  too.  Looks  as  if  you  had  been  losing  yourselves 
together.  Ha!  ha!" 

This  untimely  mirth  is  by  no  means  checked  by  the  fact 
that  none  except  himself  seems  to  see  where  the  j •>!:•* 
comes  in.  Evelyn  shakes  hands  with  him,  presses  her  now 
rather  hot  cheek  against  Marian's  cool  one,  and  nods  in  a 
rather  constrained  way  to  Stamer,  who  comes  over,  and 
with  a  sort  of  determination  shakes  hands  with  her. 

"  What  a  day  ! "  says  Miss  Vandeleur,  who  is  always 
delicately  alive  to  any  little  strain  in  the  conditions  of 
those  around  her.  "  Too  warm  to  make  one  happy.  You 
have  been  out,  Evelyn  ?  " 

"  Only  to  feed  the  chickens.  Mr.  Crawford  came  just  as 

I  was  begining  to  satisfy  them,  and — he ."  She  grows 

visibly  nervous  beneath  the  direct  glare  of  a  very  angry 
|  pair  of  young  eyes,  that  she  rather  feels  than  sees,  and 
<  breaks  down  ignominously. 


144  A  LIFE'S  EEMOESE. 

"  He  helped  you  ?  A  difficult  task.  I  know  what  hens 
and  chickens  are,  myself,"  says  Miss  Vandeleur,  with  a 
delightfully  non-comprehensible  smile  at  Crawford — who 
alas  ! — has  given  the  child's  momentary  nervousness  an 
entirely  wrong  reading.  "They  are  the  shamelessly  selfish 
atoms  of  the  universe.  But  what  a  pleasant  time  we  have 
had  at  the  Castle.  So  far  as  Fenton-by-Sea  goes,  we  must 
regard  the  fact  that  the  duchess  has  left  us  as  a  national 
loss." 

"  She  is  wonderfully  unspoiled,"  says  Mr.  Crawford, 
making  his  trite  remark  absently.  Of  what  sort  of  use  at 
all  is  a  duchess,  if  compared  with  a  young  and  beautiful 
love  ? 

"I  should  think  society  will  fall  to  pieces,"  says  Mr. 
Blount,  with  a  sniff. 

"Well,  you  may  sneer,"  says  Evelyn,  warming  to  the 
subject,  "  but  we  do  feel  a  little  out  of  it  now,  don't  we  ?  " 
glancing  round  for  an  encouragement  that  is  so  largely 
supplied  by  Mr.  Crawford  that  her  «yes  rest  on  him. 

"  One  must  regret  the  duchess,"  says  he,  answering  her 
glance.  "  But  why  should  we  come  to  a  standstill  ?  Can 
I  be  of  any  use  ?  " 

Mrs.  D'Arcy  bursts  out  laughing.  Poor  soul,  she  has 
not  had  much  chance  for  laughter  of  late. 

"  Oh !  rash  man,"  says  she.  "Is  there  no  one  to  give  you 
earning?  Will  you  commit  yourself,  then  ? " 

"  Miss  D'Arcy  shall  command  me,"  says  he  laughing. 
"What  shall  it  be,  then?"  turning  to  Evelyn.  "A  dance, 
a  garden  party — a  picnic — a " 

"  You  have  said  it,"  cries  Evelyn  gaily,  who  has  forgotten 
in  the  new  excitement  all  about  her  late  discomfiture.  "  A 
picnic ;  we  have  not  had  one  this  year  yet.  It  would  be 
delightful,  wouldn't  it,  Marian  ?  " 

"  It  would  indeed,"  says  Marian,  whose  eyes  too  have 
caught  a  brighter  light. 

"  Then  it  only  remains  to  say  what  day,"  says  Crawford, 
Who,  unconsciously,  has  addressed  himself  to  Evelyn  solely. 

"  This  is  the  seventh,"  says  she,  musing. 

"Odd  numbers  are  lucky,"  says  Mr.  Blount,  striking  in 
now  with  his  usual  luck.  "  Why  not  say  the  fifteenth  ?  " 

"  Oh)  no  / "  says  Evelyn  rising  to  her  feet,  and  looking 
towards  Mrs.  D'Arcy  in  a  nervous  fashion  that  suggests  «t 
desire  for  help. 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  145 

M  No,  no,  dear.  No,  of  course  not,"  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy  at 
once,  speaking  soothingly  but  with  some  agitation.  Evelyn, 
still  standing  and  pale  as  death,  shudders  a  little,  and  walking 
across  the  room  sinks  down  on  the  sofa  on  which  her  aunt 
is  sitting  and  gives  her  hand  into  her  keeping. 

Stamer,  who  has  been  silent  since  Evelyn's  entrance,  now 
regarding  her  with  some  surprise,  is  impelled  by  some  secret 
influence  to  move  his  glance  from  her  to  Crawford. 

As  he  looks  he  is  conscious  of  a  severe  shock.    Crawford 

is  still  sitting,  but  his  face .     It  is  absolutely  ghastly^ 

The  eyes,  bent  rigidly  u^on  Miss  D'Arcy,  seem  starting* 
from  their  sockets  ;  the  grey  pallor  of  his  skin  is  terrible. 
Good  heavens  !  -What  can  it  mean  ?  Whatever  may  be  the 
secret  of  Miss  D'Arcy's  life,  is  it  possible  that  he,  Crawford, 
an  utter  stranger,  can  be  cognizant  of  it,  when  others,  old 
friends,  lie  still  in  the  dark  ?  The  idea  is  so  hateful  to  Stamer 
that  with  both  hands,  as  it  were,  he  pushes  it  from  him. 

"No,  no,  not  the  fifteenth,"  says  Crawford,  recovering 
himself  by  a  powerful  effort.  "  Miss — Miss  D'Arcy  does 
not  desire  that  day  and " 

He  stops  abruptly,  as  though  the  strength  to  proceed  is 
beyond  him.  Stamer,  watching  him,  grows  momentarily 
more  sure  that  whatever  it  is  that  the  D'Arcys  have  hitherto 
concealed  about  Evelyn's  early  life  is  known  at  least  to 
Crawford.  A  very  rage  of  anger  fills  his  breast  as  he  admits 
this  thought.  H« — he  !  That  he  should  be  trusted  whilst 
those  who  have  known  and  grown  with  her  should  be  deemed 
unworthy  of  trust !  It  is  intolerable. 

"  Then  some  day  later,"  Marian  is  saying  in  her  soft  voice, 
eager  as  usual  to  fill  up  the  gaps.  "  The  seventeenth  ?  That, 
too,"  to  the  unfortunate  Batty,  who  is  much  depressed  by 
the  result  of  his  suggestion,  "  would  be  a  lucky  number." 

"  Yes ;  the  seventeenth  by  all  means,"  says  Crawford. 
He  looks,  with  difficulty  as  it  seems  to  Stamer — who  is 
watching  him — at  Miss  D'Arcy.  "  Will  the  seventeenth  suit 
you,  Miss  D'Arcy  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes.     I  hope  it  will  be  a  fine  day,"  says  she  faintly. 

"  Bound  to  be,"  says  Mr.  Blount,  who,  after  all,  has  his 
uses.  "  You  know  what  the  Meteorological  Society  have 
said,  that  there  will  be  no  more  rain  until  the  middle  of 
August.  They're  the  biggest  liars  in  the  world,  no  doubt,* 
says  Mr.  Blount  pleasantly,  "  but  sometimes  they  hit  it  off 
Let's  hope  they'll  do  it  this  time." 


148  A  LITE'S  REMORSE. 

"  1  feel  as  if  ra'.n  wasn't  within  a  million  miles  of  me," 
S",ys  Marian  laug'ning.  She  is  feeling  honestly  concerned 
for  Evelyn,  but  is  exei-ting  herself  to  pass  off  the  afternoon's 
fiasco  as  best  she  can.  Has  the  colonel's  debt  had  anything 
to  do  with  the  fifteenth  ?  Has  the  sword  of  Damocles  de- 
scended? But  if  so,  should  not  the  wife  rather  than  the  niece 
show  such  signs  of  agitation  ?  It  is  very  puzzling  altogether. 

"  You  going,  Crawford  ?  "  cries  Mr.  Blount ;  "  then  I'll 
go  with  you.  Our  paths  lie  very  much  the  same  way. 
And,  if  you're  like  me,  you  think  your  own  company  worst 
of  all.  Ha  !  ha  !  " 

"  You  are  very  good,"  says  Mr.  Crawford,  with  an  inward 
resignation  that  he  forbids  to  rise  to  the  surface. 


CHAPTER  XXVL 

NOT  a  drop  of  rain  last  night.  Not  a  cloud  in  the  sky  to- 
day. The  grass  so  hot  as  to  almost  hurt  the  feet  that  tread 
it ;  innumerable  battalions  of  midges  hiding  under  the 
leaves  ready  to  spring  out  and  attack  the  passer-by  on  any 
and  every  occasion.  Clearly  the  day  of  all  days  for  a  picnic  ! 

Evelyn,, springing  out  of  her  little  white  bed  and  flinging 
up  the  window,  gives  way  to  a  joyful  exclamation.  It  is  all 
right !  Not  a  fear  that  rain  will  fall.  What  luck  t  When 
she  has  thrust  her  head  right  round  the  roses  that  are  always 
trying  to  clamber  in  at  her  bedroom  window  and  has  seen 
that  the  sky  is  clear  as  clear  can  be,  and  that  the  sun  is 
reigning  triumphantly  over  all  the  heavens,  she  draws  back 
again  with  a  sigh  of  content,  and  looks  casually  round  her. 
A  pretty  skirt,  a  mere  paltry  cotton,  but  as  becoming  as  an 
Indian  silk  can  be,  catching  her  eye,  spoils  the  smile  on  her 
lips  and  sends  her  thoughts  off  on  a  more  mournful  tack. 

Last  night,  just  as  that  frock  had  come  home  from  the 
wash,  the  colonel  had  been  in  the  lowest  of  all  low  spirits. 
Something  (there  is  always  a  dispiriting  vagueness  about  the 
colonel's  difficulties)  had  occurred,  had  come  in  by  the  late 
post.  It  was  a  bulky  letter  and  had  driven  the  colonel  into 
a  considerable  use  of  profane  language.  It  had  even  led  to 
his  carrying  off  his  wile  into  the  privacy  of  their  chamber, 
from  whence  she  had  emerged  later  on  with  her  eyes  very 
much  the  worse  for  wear.  Her  temper,  unlike  the  colonel'^ 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  147 

bad  remained  unruffled,  but  she  was  so  sad  that  the  children 
— who  as  a  rule  spent  their  time  climbing  all  over  her — 
finding  her  a  dismal  companion  for  the  nonce,  like  the  un- 
grateful little  demons  they  can  be,  forsook  her  in  a  body. 

This,  however,  was  more  a  relief  to  her  than  a  grievance. 
She  knew  they  would  come  back  to  her  to-morrow — that  no 
one,  in  their  eyes,  was  as  good  as  their  mammy ;  and  when 
they  had  fled  to  the  nursery,  or  the  kitchen,  or  the  coal 
cellar,  as  the  case  might  be,  she  found  a  certain  sense  of 
comfort  in  opening  her  mind  to  Evelyn,  and  Jimmy,  who 
was  now  too  big  to  honestly  believe  that  a  whole  tribe 
of  banditti  could  be  at  any  moment  discovered  in  the  out- 
houses or  the  garrets. 

It  was  the  same  old  story.  Pressure  brought  to  bear  on 
the  poor  colonel  for  debts  that  were  none  of  his  own.  Ruin 
must  soon  catch  him  up,  it  was  now  racing  so  closely  at  his 
heels.  Neither  she  nor  the  colonel,  of  course,  would  go  to 
this  picnic  to-morrow.  There  would  be  no  good  in  going. 
Where  would  the  enjoyment  come  in  with  such  a  weight 
upon  one's  heart  ?  but  Jimmy  and  Evelyn 

No,  Evelyn  would  not  go.  The  girl's  heart  sank  a  little, 
but  she  was  quite  determined  that  nothing  under  heaven 
should  induce  her  to  go  to  Mr.  Crawford's  picnic,  until  the 
colonel,  grave-eyed  and  pale,  coming  in  and  learning  the 
discussion  x|n  hand,  grew  so  furious,  that  to  appe?,se  him 
and  please  him,  she  went  back  on  all  her  resolutions,  and 
promised  that  she  and  Jimmy  would  not  only  go,  but  be 
sure  to  enjoy  themselves  tremendously. 

"  To  think  of  your  not  going,"  said  the  colonel ;  "  why 
he's  giving  it  for  you.  It  would  be  '  Hamlet'  with  Ophelia 
left  out." 

He  spoke  kindly,  unselfishly  as  usual,  without  any  arrilre 
pens'ee.  He  would  be  as  incapable  of  "  making  a  match," 
as  they  term  it,  as  he  was  of  managing  successfully  his  own 
affairs. 

The  spot  agreed  upon  was  a  little  romantic  hollow,  called 
"  The  Oak  Bowl,"  by  the  country  people  round,  because  of 
its  being  surrounded  o?  three  side  by  these  sovereigns  of 
the  forest.  It  lies  in  the  centre  of  a  huge  wood,  with  hills 
rising  skyward  on  its  left  all  clothed  with  towering  oaks ;  on 
its  right,  a  delicate  slope  overgrown  with  bracken  and  ferns 
of  all  kinds ;  a  slope  that  a  little  further  on  grows  iato  a  rather 
dangerous  bit  of  precipice,  on  which  the  rarest  ferns,  the 

10— a 


149  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

most  desirable  mosses,  are  growing  in  luxuriance,  as  if  happy 
in  the  thought  that  the  reckless  plucker  of  all  things  as  he 
goes  by,  will  at  least  have  a  difficult  task  before  him  ere  he 
can  drag  them  from  their  native  soil.  The  proposed  spot 
for  the  picnic  might  indeed  be  termed  a  plateau  with  a 
verdured  wall  at  its  back  and  a  sheer  incline  at  its  feet ;  a 
very  home  of  greenery,  delicately  mingled  with  the  eternal 
blue  above.  A  lovely  spot,  designed  for  lovers  and  their 
lasses,  and  for  nothing  more  prosaic. 

Mrs.  Vaudrey,  however,  is  the  first  to  put  in  an  appear- 
ance on  this  sacred  plain.  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  to  do  her  justice, 
is  never  late.  Be  it  to  greet  friend  or  foe,  to  spend  a 
pleasant  day,  or  sustain  the  fatigues  of  battle,  she  is  always 
up  to  time.  Surely  as  excellent  a  thing  in  woman  and  as 
rare  as  that  low  sweet  voice  of  which  we  are  so  deadly 
tired  of — not  hearing. 

She  has  several  of  her  young  brood  round  her,  Mr.  Craw- 
ford having  made  it  a  special  point  that  they  should  be 
present,  after  a  surreptitious  meeting  with  two  of  them,  who 
had  waylaid  him  on  his  walk  home  one  evening,  and  with 
the  scandalous  outspokenness  of  children  had  begged  from 
him  an  invitation.  Perhaps  however  the  little  Vaudreys 
would  not  have  gone  so  far,  had  they  not  been  sure  before- 
hand of  their  man,  and  the  certainty  that  their  wish  would 
be  granted. 

"Dear  me,  you  are  late,  you're  very  late,"  cries  Mrs, 
Vaudrey,  in  the  precise  tone  the  hostess  might  have  used, 
had  there  been  one,  as  at  last  Mr.  Crawford  and  a  large 
party  emerge  from  the  winding  pathway  and  advance 
towards  her. 

"  The  vicar  not  come  ?  "  says  Mr.  Crawford,  when  he  has 
greeted  her.  There  is  distinct  disappointment  in  his  tone. 

"No.  No  indeed.  Just  like  Reginald,  you  know.  Old 
Mary  Morning  had  a  slight  cramp  and  sent  to  him  to  say 
she  was  dying  and  should  get  Holy  Communion ;  so  of 
course  he  went.  She  has  had  this  cramp  regularly  every 
week  since  last  Christmas,  yet  Reginald  always  believes  she 
is  going  to  die  each  time.  How  d  ye  do,  my  dear  girl  ?  "  to 
Evelyn.  "  How  d'ye  do,  Marian  ?  Such  a  blessing  having 
a  fine  day,  isn't  it  ?  "  She  says  this  as  though  fine  days  have 
been  denied  them  of  late,  whereas  there  hasn't  been  a  drop 
of  rain  for  a  fortnight. 

it  ?  "  says  Mr.  Bkmnt  with  enthusiasm.     "  We've 


A  LIFE'S  REMOHSB.  149 

had  so  few  of  'em.  I  anticipated  nothing  but  a  downpour 
myself,  yesterday  was  so  unpromising." 

"  Yesterday  was  the  finest  day  we  have  had  this  year," 
says  Evelyn  indignantly,  who  is  always  angry  when  any  one 
makes  fun  of  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  perhaps  more  for  Mr.  Vaud- 
rey's  sake  than  for  her  own. 

"  D'ye  say  so  !  "  exclaims  Mr.  Blount,  with  an  air  of  the 
most  exaggerated  astonishment,  whereon  Evelyn,  seeing 
there  is  nothing  to  be  got  out  of  him,  very  prudently  turns 
her  back  on  him,  to  find  herself  face  to  face  with  Mrs. 
Wylding-Weekes. 

If  this  volatile  person  could  be  supposed  capable  of  en- 
tertaining a  lasting  feeling  for  any  one,  be  it  love  or  hate,  it 
is  certainly  for  Evelyn  ;  and  it  isn't  hate. 

"  Oh !  there  you  are,"  says  she,  slipping  her  arm  confi- 
dentially through  Evelyn's  and  leading  her  a  little  away 
from  the  others.  "  I've  been  dying  to  know  who  has  been 
asked  to  this  affair.  You  know,"  with  emphasis  and  a  sly 
push.  "  You're  in  this  swim.  I  guess  you're  the  boss  of 
this  show  ! "  It  is  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes  latest  irregularity 
that  she  will  think  it  funny  to  talk  American. 

"  I  don't  know  much  more  than  you  do,"  says  Evelyn 
calmly.  "  Except  that  perhaps  I  know  Mr.  Crawford  better, 
and " 

"  That'll  do,  you  needn't  give  yourself  away  too  much," 
says  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes.  "  Well,  go  on  ;  who's  coming  ?  " 

"Lady  Stamer,  the  Osmonds,  the  Coventrys,  Marian 
Vandeleur " 

"  Oh,  get  out !  "  says  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes.  "  Do  you 
suppose  I  want  to  know  what  women  are  coming  ?  That  lot 
may  always  go  overboard  for  me.  Give  us  the  men." 

"  The  men  from  Uxton,  then ; "  (meaning  the  officers 
from  the  barracks  there). 

"  No,  you  don't  mean  it  ?  "  says  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes, 
brightening  up  instantly,  and  giving  a  little  pull  to  her  hat. 
'*  Thafs  something,  anyway.  Go  on.  You're  better  than 
a  book." 

"  The  men  from  Dashley  Barracks  on  the  other  side  of 
Fenton-by-Sea." 

"  Good  heavens !  why  didn't  I  put  on  my  other  frock," 
says  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes  in  open  despair.  "  Really, 
Evelyn,  considering  you  knew,  I  think  you  might  have  given 
me  a  friendly  hint." 


150  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

"  But  I  thought  you  knew,"  says  Evelyn.  "  And  besjde% 
—I  don't  know  the  other  frock,  but  you  look  as  pretty  as 
anything  in  this  one." 

"  Do  I,  seriously  ?  Well,  of  course  we  all  know  one  com- 
pliment from  a  woman  is  worth  twenty  from  a  man.  So 
here  goes — I'll  enjoy  myself  whilst  I  may.  But  I  do  assure 
you,  Evelyn,  my  new  gown  is  a  perfect  angel  of  a  thing.  I 
was  keeping  it  for  some  big  affair,  but  after  all  this  promises 
to  be  the  biggest  thing  of  the  season,  and  that's  why—- 
But never  mind  my  frock,  go  on  with  the  roll-call;  any 
more  men  ?  " 

"  The  people  round ;  Batty  Blount,  Sir  Bertram  and 
Eaton  Stamer." 

"  Oh  !  bother  him,"  interrupting  rather  brusquely,  and 
with  the  secret  intention  of  doing  her  companion  a  good 
turn,a  desire  that  has  lingered  in  her  frivolous  mind  ever  since 
she  happened  to  hear  a  little  bit  of  gossip  in  which  Eaton's 
name  had  been  prominent.  "  I  don't  think  much  of  him," 
says  she,  not  looking  at  her  companion  this  time,  with 
quite  a  wonderful  amount  of  delicacy  for  her.  "  A  man 
who  can  marry  for  money !  I  hate  that  sort.  And  I  hear 
the  old  lady  has  as  good  as  completed  an  engagement 
between  him  and  Marian  Vandeleur.  Did  you  hear 
of  it  ?  " 

"A  word  or  two,"  says  Evelyn,  in  a  calm  steady  tone 
that  so  astonishes  her  companion,  that  she  forgets  her  new 
minners,  and  relapsing  into  the  old  ones,  turns  and  stares 
at  her. 

"Well,  a  very  good  match  too,"  says  she  decisively. 
"  Both  are  as  dull  as  ditchwater.  Pity  to  spoil  two  houses 
witli  them,  say  I." 

"  I  do  not  think  them  dull,"  says  Evelyn,  turning  away 
gladly  to  greet  some  newcomers.  For  the  first  time  it 
occurs  to  her  that  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes  is  insufferably 
vulgar.  This  is  rather  hard  on  the  latter,  who,  for  perhaps 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  has  tried  fo  do  a  good  action. 
She  had  sought  to  warn  the  girl,  without  any  ulterior 
design — anything  that  could  benefit  herself. 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  time  for  dinner  ?  "  says  Crawford, 
coming  up  to  Evelyn,  and  addressing  her  pointedly.  "  I*  is 
two  o'clock.  Nobody  has  lunched,  so  of  course  eveiyb*<% 
is  hungry." 

"At  that  rate — yes,"  says  she,  colouring  a  little,  bui 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  1JI 

Smiling.     "  Have  you  asked  everybody  else  ?  Lady  Stamer- 
would  know  the  orthodox  hour  for  a  picnic  dinner." 

"I  have  asked  no  one  but  you,"  says  he,  in  his  slow 
heavy  way.  "  This  hour  will  suit  you  then  ?  "  He  turns 
away,  as  if  no  other  word  is  necessary,  and  gives  some 
orders  to  his  servants. 

A  faint,  a  very  faint  smile,  passes  as  a  wave  over  the 
faces  of  those  who  have  heard  Crawford's  words,  but  no 
one  makes  any  comment  thereon,  except  Stamer,  who 
happens  to  have  just  come  up  to  Evelyn  almost  as  Crawford 
spoke. 

"  You  are  singularly  favoured,"  says  he,  with  a  smile 
that  is  not  devoid  of  bitterness.  If  he  had  expected  an 
angry  rejoinder,  he  is  instantly  assured  of  his  mistake. 
Miss  D'Arcy  lets  her  soft  eyes  rest  upon  him  meditatively. 
There  is  no  annoyance  in  their  velvet  depths,  no  indigna. 
tion.  If  there  is  a  little  sad  reproach,  that  is  all.  He  had 
expected  anger,  and  he  has  found  only  a  gentle  surprise. 
It  may  be  that  seme  of  Miss  D'Arcy's  charm  arises  from 
the  fact  that  she  is  not  always  to  be  accounted  for,  that 
she  has  an  "  infinite  variety  "  that  leaves  her  always  fresh. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE  dinner  is  a  perfect  success.  Not  a  grain  of  salt  has 
fallen  into  the  pies,  not  a  scrap  of  sugar  into  the  lobster 
salads.  The  champagne  cup  is  devoid  of  flies.  All  is 
peace  ! 

Outwardly  at  least;  within,  it  appears  that  fires  still  burn. 
It  is  plain  to  a  good  many  that  Lady  Stamer  and  Mrs. 
Vaudrey  are  not  on  speaking  terms  to-day ;  that  they  are 
"out"  with  each  other,  as  the  school-children  have  it,  but 
to  know  the  reason  why  is  reserved  for  the  very  few — for 
Evelyn  and  Marian  alone. 

Dinner — or  lunch — at  an  end,  the  two  last-named  have 
wandered  away  a  little  from  the  others,  in  a  sort  of  idlesse ; 
Marian  had  had  something  in  her  mind  to  say  when  she 
drew  near  to  Evelyn,  a  vague  anxiety  to  put  into  words  a 
certain  rumour  that  had  reached  and  had  disquieted  her  for 
her  friend,  but  the  sudden  descent  of  Mrs.  Vaudrey  upon 
the  two  girls  had  chained  them  both  to  silence. 


153  A  LIFE'S  REMOHSE. 

"All  alone?"  says  she,  linking  her  arm  in  Evelyn's.  "  ,| 
Is  a  comfort  to  see  two  girls  at  least  who  do  not  bow  fae 
knee  to  Man  f  "  This  with  a  huge  capital !  "  Oh,  my 
dear  Evelyn,  what  have  I  not  suffered  through  that  demon 
woman  to-day  !  Such  insolence !  Barely  knew  me,  if  you 
please.  Me  !  who  knew  her  in  her  poverty  1 " 

"  You  mean  Lady  Stamer  ?  " 

"  Whom  else  should  I  mean  ?  Who  but  she  could  be  a 
perfect  Turk  on  occasion  !  " 

"  Never  mind  her,"  says  Marian  kindly.  "  Come  on 
with  us.  Up  this  way,  Mrs.  Vaudrey.  There  is  a  lovely  view 
a  little  bit  farther  on,  that  will  drive  all  angry  thoughts  out 
of  your  mind.  This  way,  through  the  wire  fence — and  in 
the  field  below  we  shall  be  able  to  look  over  the  precipice 
and  see  the  river." 

"Through  that  wire  fence?"  says  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  pointing 
to  a  long  straight  line  of  fencing,  the  wires  of  which  are 
uncomfortably  close  together. 

"  Yes,  I'll  go  first,"  says  Evelyn.  "  You  follow.  Marian 
and  I  will  hold  up  the  wires,  so  that  you  can  easily  slip 
through." 

She  slips  through  herself  as  easily  as  possible,  her  pretty 
lithe  figure  passing  under  the  wire  without  a  struggle ; 
but  alas  !  for  poor  Mrs.  Vaudrey  when  she  attempts  to 
follow  her. 

One  foot  of  generous  size,  with  accompaniments  to 
match,  gets  through  all  right,  and  half  the  solid  body 
follows,  but  after  that  comes  a  fatal  hitch !  There  is  a 
violent  struggle,  a  gaUant  attempt  at  extrication,  a  subdued 
groan  or  two,  several  wriggles,  and  then  the  truth  lie* 
bare.  Mrs.  Vaudrey  has  stuck  fast ! 

Her  head,  and  both  her  arms,  and  one  foot  on  that 
side,  all  the  rest  of  her  on  this.  It  is  a  terrible  moment. 
The  girls  nearly  go  down  before  it.  Exert  themselves  as  they 
will — and  as  they  do — it  is  borne  home  upon  them  at  last 
that  no  power  on  earth  that  they  can  invoke  will  land  her 
safely  on  the  other  side. 

"  It  is  my  fault,"  says  Evelyn,  who  is  almost  on  the  point 
of  tears. 

"  It  is  her  bustle."  says  Marian,  with  miserable  conviction, 
"  Try  again  ;  it  is  like  a  flint !  No,  we'll  never  do  it.  Good 
heavens !  what  a  predicament !  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  try  to  keep 
your  head  up-»-try  to  keep " 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  Ijft 

Tm  trying !  I'm  dying!  "  gasps  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  nncon- 

•ciously  dropping  into  poetry,  like  Silas  Wegg. 

"  Oh  dear  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  try  to  hold  up  for  another 
moment  or  two,  help  must  come  soon.     Oh,  what  on  earth 
is  it  made  of  ?  "  says  Evelyn,  in  an  agonized  tone,  bearing 
down  upon  the  article  of  dress  in  question  as  she  speaks. 
What  indeed ! 

"  It  won't  bend.  It  won't  do  anything  I  Oh,  Marian, 
what  shall  we  do  ?  " 

"  Hold  up  her  head,"  says  Marian;  "it  will  be  apoplexy 
if  you  don't.  Oh,  will  nobody  ever  come  ?  " 

"  If  Marian  were  to  push,"  gasped  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  "  and 
you  to  pull,  I  might  perhaps  slip  through.  For  heaven's 
sake,  girls,  do  something.  If  Bessie  Stamer  were  to  come 
up  now,  I  should  never  get  over  it." 

"  I  am  pushing,"  says  Marian  desperately. 
"  And  I'm  pulling,"  says  Evelyn,  with  a  dry  sob  ;  "  but 
nothing  comes  of  it.     It — it's  your  bustle  that  won't  give 
way  !     Oh  !  where  did  you  buy  it  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  buy  it — made  if,"  moans  Mrs.  Vaudrey. 
"  Fresh  one  this  morning.  Hay  !  " 

"  Oh  I  I  do  think  you  needn't  have  stuffed  it  quite  so 
hard,"  says  Evelyn,  who  is  now  in  tears. 
An  exclamation  from  Marian  startles  her. 
"  Here's  some  one ! "  cries  she. 

Mrs.  Vaudrey  makes  a  dying  wriggle.  "  Not  Bessie  ?  * 
shrieks  she. 

"  No,  no ;  only  Batty,  Eaton  and  Sir  Bertram.  Evelyn," 
in  an  agony,  "  how  are  we  to  hide  her  ?  " 

"  Hide  me  !  "  cries  Mrs.  Vaudrey  wildly.  "  For  what  ? 
For  why  ?  "  She  seems  to  be  going  back  to  her  childhood 
in  the  extremity  of  her  agitation,  so  peculiar  is  her  speech. 
"They're  men"  ungratefully;  "they  II  be  able  to  do  some- 
thing. You  can't !  Call  them.  Shout  to  them  !  If  they 
can  do  nothing,  you  had  better  send  for  Reginald.  He'll 
be  good  for  the  burial  service,  at  all  events." 

It  is  plain  that  there  is  no  false  shame  about  her.  Miss 
Vandeleur,  stepping  to  one  side,  lets  the  scene  sink  in  upon 
the  minds  of  the  approaching  relief  party.  Words  fail  her, 
but  she  makes  a  tragic  gesture  that  is  as  expressive  as  a 
volume. 

The  three  men  rush  to  the  rescue.  There  is  a  great 
•training  of  muscles,  a  refusal  to  meet  each  other's  eyes,  c 


«54  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

final  effort,  and  the  affectionate  wire  that  has  so  long  em- 
braced her,  smashing  in  two,  Mrs.  Vaudrey  drops,  an  inert 
but  grateful  bundle,  on  to  the  nice  soft  grass  beyond. 

"  Dear  me,  dear  me,"  says  she,  sitting  up  and  at  once 
beginning  to  adjust  her  bonnet,  "  such  a  thing  to  happen 
to  me  !  " 

She  isn't  even  embarrassed.  The  girls  look  at  her  with 
amazement,  the  men  with  admiration,  tempered  with — well, 
it  doesn't  matter ;  they  have  at  least  the  decency  to  con- 
trol it — all,  that  is,  except  Mr.  Blount,  who  has  apparently 
been  taken  with  the  palsy. 

"  How  am  I  looking,  girls  ?  "  asks  Mrs.  Vaudrey  from  her 
lowly  position  on  the  bosom  of  mother  earth.  "Tumbled, 
eh  ?  How's  my  hair  ?  Is  my  bonnet  straight  ?  D'ye 
think  if  I  met  Bessie  she  wouldn't  suspect  anything  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  says  Evelyn,  who  has  been  putting  Mrs. 
Vaudrey's  head  to  rights,  and  generally  rubbing  her  down. 
"  Better  get  up,  however,  she  might  turn  that  corner  at  any 
moment." 

"  Allow  me,"  says  Sir  Bertram,  giving  the  prostrate  lady 
his  hand.  He  brings  her  by  a  superhuman  effort  to  her 
feet.  Alone  he  does  it.  Eaton  is  picking  up  the  few  stray 
articles  that  she  has  shed  during  her  struggle,  and  Mr. 
Blount  is  still  battling  with  his  disease. 

He  is  evidently  very  bad.  He  has  retired  into  the  back- 
ground, and  is  apparently  incapable  of  action  of  any  sort. 
All  the  black  looks  united,  that  Marian  and  Sir  Bertram 
have  showered  upon  him,  have  not  had  the  effect  of  check- 
ing the  attack  that  has  seized  him.  On  the  contrary,  he 
seems  to  grow  worse  every  moment.  To  a  casual  observer 
it  might  suggest  itself  that  the  unfortunate  young  man  is 
bursting. 

"  Really,  Batty,"  says  Evelyn  at  last,  in  a  disgusted  tone. 
It  is  the  match  to  the  fuse.  Mr,  Bloun-t  gives  way  to  his 
feelings;  a  guffaw  breaks  from  him  that  shakes  the  cir- 
cumambient air. 

After  this,  the  deluge  being  imminent,  all  seek  to  hide 
their  heads ;  unnecessarily,  as  time  proves.  A  second 
cackle  joins  itself  to  Mr.  Blount's.  To  the  amazement  of  all 
the  quakers  present,  it  proves  to  come  from  Mrs.  Vaudrey. 

"Oh,  you  may  laugh,"  says  she  to  Batty,  thus  coun- 
tenancing that  youth's  ill-timed  hilarity,  and  thereby  in 
all  probability  saving  him  from  a  most  painful  death ;  he  is 


A  LI!  E"S  HEMORSE.  155 

ifer  gone  towards  apoplexy  at  this  moment.  "But  if  you 
had  been  me,  you'd  have  sung  a  different  tune ;  especially 
if  you  had  thought  that  Bessie  Stamer  might  be  dowr 
upon  you  at  any  second,  eye-glass  in  eye.  You  would  have 
felt  laughter  far  from  you  then,  I  promise  you,  and  you'd 
have  quailed  as  I  did.  There,  don't  be  angry  with  him, 
girls.  I  daresay  any  one  who  wasn't  a  principal  ingredient 
in  the  mess,  could  hardly  help  getting  a  laugh  out  of  it." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

TOGETHER  they  all  go  on  their  way.  The  late  tragic 
element  is  so  largely  commingled  with  the  present  comic, 
that  scarcely  a  suspicion  of  the  former  remains.  They  are 
all  indeed  in  the  gayest  spirits.  Sir  Bertram  has  dropped 
into  step  with  Miss  Vandeleur;  his  brother  had  made  an 
attempt  to  appropriate  Evelyn  in  the  same  way,  but  she 
had  clung  to  Mrs.  Vaudrey  in  a  figurative  way,  and  had 
encouraged  Mr.  Blount  in  so  barefaced  a  fashion,  that  he  is 
quite  justified  in  tucking  her  arm  into  his,  as  he  does  with- 
out any  of  the  ordinary  formularies.  She  seems  quite  de- 
lighted with  him  indeed,  and  only  when  he  proposes  as  a 
part  of  the  day's  amusement  to  climb  a  steep  hill  that 
apparently  leads  nowhere,  does  she  put  in  a  demurrer. 

"  But,  my  dear  Batty,  it's  as  bad  as  the  Eiffel  Tower.  It 
seems  to  go  on  for  ever,  like  the  brook.  No ;  I  won't  go 
up  there.  You'd  hate  it ;  wouldn't  you,  Mrs.  Vaudrey  ?  * 
appealing  eagerly  to  that  friendly  lady. 

"  I  shouldn't  love  it,"  says  she,  "  unless  there  is  a  com- 
pany  at  the  foot  of  it  with  whom  to  insure  one's  lifev 
No  one's  breath  is  warranted  to  last  for  ever,  and  the  top 
of  that  hill  is  a  good  way  off." 

"I'll  give  you  a  leg — er — a  hand,  I  mean,"  says  Mr. 
Blount,  who  is  always  full  of  possibilities. 

"  Nonsense,  Batty.  It  would  take  us  the  whole  day,  and 
I  want  Mrs.  Vaudrey  to  see  the  river  from  a  certain  point. 
It  is  so  lovely.  Besides,  that'hill ;  what  use  is  it  ?  Where 
does  it  lead  to  ?  " 

"  Heaven  ! "  replies  Mr.  Blount  solemnly.  "  Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me,  after  all  Mr.  Vaudrey's  teaching,  that  you 
object  to  going  there  ?  " 


156  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

"Just  yet  ?  Certainly  /  "  responds "Mi-*>  D'Arcy  promptly. 

"Well,  go  your  own  way,"  says  Mr.  Blount  with  sad 
resignation; 

It  is  a  very  idyllic  way,  and  leads  them  presently  to  that 
part  of  the  plateau  that  overlooks  the  steepest  part  of  the 
precipice,  and  fets  the  lover  of  nature  gaze  with  satisfied  eyes 
upon  the  brawling  stream  that  far  below  rushes  like  an 
angry  living  thing  over  its  dark  rocks  and  through  its 
gleaming  lilies. 

Meantime  Mr.  Crawford  had  made  his  way  to  the  top  of 
that  high  hill,  that  seemed  so  good  to  Batty  Blount.  The 
dinner  at  an  end,  his  duty  too  had  looked  to  him  as  finished, 
and  seeing  Evelyn  strolling  away  with  Mrs.  Vaudrey  and 
Marian  Vandeleur,  he  had  told  himself  that  a  season  of 
rest  was  due  to  him. 

In  truth  he  had  been  made  glad  by  that  vision  of  her 
departing,  happy,  bright,  beautiful,  as  she  always  was,  with  only 
two  women  as  her  companions.  By  some  singular  chance, 
the  men  who  usually  affected  her  had  been  delayed — kept 
back — but  she  had  not  seemed  to  miss  them.  With  a  thrill 
of  intense  content  he  recollects  how  entirely  without  regret 
had  been  the  lovely  face  that  had  gone  up  that  flower-filled 
path  beside  Mrs.  Vaudrey. 

For  himself,  he  had  stolen  away.  Many  devices  had 
been  laid  for  him,  but  he  had  been  clever  enough  to  elude 
them,  and  now  flinging  himself  upon  the  turf  right  up  on 
the  top  of  the  oak-crowned  hill  he  gives  himself  up  to  the 
torture  that  has  drawn  him  to  itself  all  day  and  compelled 
his  obedience. 

Oh,  God  !  How  long  !  How  long !  How  long !  He 
does  not  drop  his  face  into  his  hands,  but  rather,  stares 
heavenward,  as  though  imploring  assistance  from  on  high. 
His  sin — his  crime.  For  ever  it  seems  to  call  aloud  for 
vengeance.  Is  no  remorse,  no  grovelling  at  its  feet,  no 
wildest  passion  of  prayer,  of  any  avail  ? 

This  month  of  all  the  others  1  How  had  he  dared  to  sug- 
gest a  festivity  in  this  month !  And  yet — could  time,  could 
space  itself  annihilate  that  awful  past  ?  was  not  one  month, 
one  day,  as  unconquerable  as  another  ?  Was  there  one  day 
In  all  these  past  ten  terrible  years,  when  sweet  forgetfulness 
fave  peace  and  rest  ?  Not  one  ! 

The  idea  of  unfairness  grows  on  him  as  he  leans  forward, 
elbows  on  knees,  his  unquiet  eyes  on  the  level  plateau 


A  UFA'S  REMORSE,  159 

down  below,  and  far — far  below  that  again,  the  shining  rivei 
rushing  along  towards  its  ocean  home.  Other  men  hai 
sinned,  had  suffered ;  sinned  deliberately,  and  of  malice 

prepense,  whilst  he They  had  thus  sinned,  and  after  a 

bit — a  year  or  tv/o — a  month  or  two — a  day,  had  gained 
that  modern  Nirvana — indifference  !  The  merciful  waves 
of  time  had  gone  over  them,  sweeping  them  hither  and 
thither,  and  if  they  had  failed  to  wash  them  altogether 
clean,  had  at  least  landed  them  safe  and  dry  on  a  friendly 
coast,  with  most  of  the  old  cruel  stinging  regret  rubbed  off 
them,  through  contact  with  the  rocks,  and  shoals,  and  storms 
through  which  they  had  carried  them. 

But  for  him,  no  such  halcyon  aftermath  had  ever  been. 
No  rest  had  come  to  him.  The  waters  of  Lethe  had  passed 
him  by  ;  with  all  his  agonizing  desire  he  had  failed  to  reach, 
to  bathe  in  them.  He  could  not  forget !  Remorse,  that 
hideous  worm,  had  found  a  home  within  his  breast,  and 
there  burrowed,  feeding  on  him  day  by  day. 

Just  now  the  valley  below  him  seems  swept  clean;- a 
fragrance  of  summer  flowers  rises  from  it.  Oh  !  That  he 
were  thus  pure  !  If  but  the  past  might  be  purged — wiped 
out — forgotten. 

"  Lordfc  if  Thou  wilt,  Thou  canst  make  me  clean." 

The  words  fall  from  his  parched  lips  almost  uncon- 
sciously ;  as  he  utters  them  his  head  falls  forward  as  if  eager 
to  find  a  rest  within  his  palms. 

It  is  a  strange  moment.  The  lowering  action  of  the  head 
brings  him  within  full  view  of  a  party  who  have  just  emerged 
upon  the  broad  plateau  down  below. 

Mrs.  Vaudrey,  Marian  Vandeleur,  two  or  three  men,  and 
Evelyn. 

He  rises  abruptly.  He  will  fling  off  these  hateful  me- 
mories ;  he  will  find  fresh  life  and  newer  times  in  hcf 
company. 

Always  with  his  eyes  on  the  svelte  figure  that  is  his  whole 
world,  he  presses  through  bracken  and  tangled  furze  until 
at  last  he  is  almost  on  a  level  with  her. 

At  this  point  he  raises  his  eyes.  Evelyn  has  moved 
forward  to  the  very  edge  of  the  precipice ;  she  is  evidently 
pointing  to  some  rare  fern  far  down  tr**«JW  that  has  attracted 
her  artistic  tendencies ;  in  her  excitement  she  makes  a  step 
forward.  There  is  a  moment  that  nobody  can  classify 
Ifterwards;  and  thenJ  Mr.  Crawford  knows  that  she  has 


158  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

fallen  oter,  and  that  al!  life  seems  to  have  condensed  itself 
into  the  one  desire — to  bring  her  back  to  life  ? 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

IT  has  all  happened  with  such  terrible  suddenness ;  Captain 
Stamer  had  not  been  exactly  next  to  her,  yet  it  seems  to 
him  afterwards  that  he  had  never  once  taken  his  eyes  away 

from  her,  and  yet There  is  a  little  cry  upon  the  air, 

Mrs.  Vaudrey  has  rushed  forward.  Eaton,  with  a  stifled 
exclamation,  has  run  towards  the  fatal  spot  where  the  little 
buoyant  figure  had  last  been  seen  and  disappeared,  but  a 
shadow  brushing  past  him,  so  close  as  almost  to  touch  him 
as  it  went  by,  has  checked  his  onward  rush. 

In  the  second  that  intervenes  between  the  shock  of  the 
check  and  the  knowledge  that  he  has  been  forestalled,  it 
grows  upon  him  that  Crawford's  had  been  the  shadow. 
There  is  indeed  no  possibility  of  doubt.  All  now  are  lean- 
ing over  the  verge  of  the  precipice,  and  there,  far  down 
now,  is  Crawford's  lean  form  clinging  to  shrub  and  bush 
as  he  goes,  and  always  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  half- 
fainting  figure  of  the  girl,  caught  providentially  in  the 
embrace  of  a  hardy  elm  half-way  down. 

There  is  perhaps  not  so  much  danger  about  the  whole 
affair  as  may  suggest  itself.  But  there  is  this  much  at  least, 
that  if  Evelyn  had  not  been  caught  by  that  great  elm,  she 
might,  nay  must  have  rolled  into  the  river  down  below,  and 
would  unmistakably  have  been  killed  either  by  the  rocks  or 
by  the  driving  flood. 

As  it  is  she  has  fallen  into  a  little  cradle.  Crawford, 
winding  his  arm  round  her,  drags  her  out  from  the  kind 
branches  that  have  so  far  succoured  her,  and  commences 
his  return. 

Thus  laden,  his  ascent  is  difficult.  Evelyn  has  fortunately 
fainted,  but  even  with  her  light  inanimate  form  thus  pliable 
within  his  grasp  the  return  to  terra  firma  is  a  matter  not 
only  of  skill  but  of  great  anxiety  and  danger.  He  is  equal  to 
it,  however.  With  the  water  pouring  off  his  brow  he  creeps 
slowly,  hand  over  hand  up  the  face  of  the  rock,  and 
presently,  assisted  at  the  last  by  enthusiastic  friends  above, 
gives  Evelyn  into  Mrs.  Vaudrey's  eager  arms. 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  159 

4 

Her  unconsciousness  is  short-lived.  She  wakens  pre« 
sently  to  find  Marian  and  Mrs.  Vaudrey  biding  over  her, 
to  find  too  that  her  right  foot  is  so  painful  that  she  cannot 
put  it  to  the  ground.  Not  sprained,  says  Dr.  Bland,  who  is 
on  the  spot,  but  likely  to  be  tedious. 

Mr.  Crawford  has  a  carriage  brought  to  the  nearest  spot, 
and  with  Mrs.  Vaudrey  in  attendance  the  poor  little  invalid 
is  taken  home. 

"  Sc?  inconsiderate ! "  says  Lady  Stamer,  addressing  a 
l^rge  audience  a  little  later  on,  including  Eaton  and  Marian. 
"  But  some  people  are  never  happy  unless  they  are  putting 
themselves  en  'evidence.  "  So  selfish  too  to  spoil  so  charm- 
ing a  day,"  with  a  smile  at  Crawford  who  has  just  come  up. 

"  You  can  hardly  say  she  spoiled  the  day,"  says  Mariars 
gravely.  "  It  is  now  so  late  that  I  expect  we  ought  to  feel 
the  day,  however  charming  " — with  on  her  part  a  gracious 
gknce  at  her  host — "  to  be  at  an  end." 

"  Still  to  leave  an  unpleasant  feeling  behind  her.  That 
is  so  unpardonable,"  says  Lady  Stamer.  "You  all  know 
what  I  mean.  One  hates  to  look  back  on  a  day  that  has 
even  a  soupgon  of  unpleasantness  about  it ;  and  it  must  be 
conceded  that  that  little  girl  has " 

"  One  would  think  she  fell  over  the  cliff  on  purpose, ' 
says  Stamer  with  an  unmistakable  sneer. 

"  I'm  afraid  we  must  not  think  of  the  day,  Lady  Stamer, 
though  it  is  more  than  good  of  you  to  concern  yourseif 
about  it,"  says  Crawford  courteously.  "What  we  have  to 
think  of  really,  is  Miss  D'Arcy's  foot.  I  fear  it  is  badly 
hurt,  and  the  shock  to  her  system — I  dread  that  too." 

Somebody  calling  him  at  this  moment,  he  walks  away, 
providentially  no  doubt.  Lady  Stamer,  turning  to  her  son, 
clutches  his  arm. 

"  You  Aever  gave  me  a  hint,"  says  she,  "  I  never  CVCN 
suspected  it  Just  fancy  what  a  sly  little  creature  she  is. 
Been  throwing  her  cap  at  him  all  this  time,  and  so  carefully 
that  not  one  of  us  has  been  the  wiser !  Oh  !  these  modern 
girls!  These  nineteenth  century  debutantes.  No  sooner 
on  the  ground  are  they,  than  they  score  the  highest  number. 
Well,  he  is  enormously  rich,  therefore,  as  the  world  goes, 
enormously  foolish.  We  can  only  pray  for  him,  that  he 
may  escape  that  girl's  bare-faced  machir.^ions." 

"  We'll  all  pray  for  that,"  says  Mr.  iixount.     "  His 
you  see,  would  be  our 


ifia  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

'    '    ,       f  - 

"Have  you  ordered  the  carriage,  Bartholomew?"  de« 
mands  his  aunt  sharply. 

"  Eaton  did,"  says  he  cheerfully,  "  the  moment  he  heard 
that  Evelyn  had  gone  home." 

"  Dear  Mr.  Blount,  what  a  suggestion,"  says  Mrs. 
Coventry,  who  has  just  come  up,  and  4ias  at  once  grasped 
the  situation,  and  is  prepared  to  revel  therein.  "  Are  you 
•e//,  then,  in  love  with  Miss  D'Arcy  ?  On  what  small  threads 
everything  hangs.  If  that  bush  had  given  way  a  second 
sooner,  or  Mr.  Crawford  had  been  a  second  later,  the  entire 
male  population  of  Fenton  would  have  been  in  deep  black 
next  week." 

"  Even  so,"  says  Batty  imperturbably. 

"  And  you,  Captain  Stamer  ?  "  says  she.  "  What  is  your 
opinion  ?  " 

"I  can't  answer  for  the  entire  population,"  says  he  as 
imperturbably,  "  but  for  myself,  yes" 

"  Two,"  says  she  laughing,  "  and  Mr.  Crawford  three. 
Vou  think  I  may  count  on  him  ?  "  appealing  directly  to 
Lady  Stamer,  whose  eyes  by  this  time  are  daggers. 

"I  know  nothing  of  him,"  says  she  coldly,  "except 
that  I  hear  he  is  undeniably  charitable." 

"Ah.  More  than  can  be  said  of  all  Mr.  Vaudrey's 
parishioners,"  says  Mrs.  Coventry  ill-naturedly,  with  her 
usual  uncompromising  stare ;  Lady  Stamer's  charities  being, 
as  a  rule,  as  few  and  far  between  as  the  currants  in  the 
orthodox  school  pudding. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

To  be  the  subject  of  universal  interest  is  one  thing,  to  be 
compelled  to  lie  all  day  on  a  sofa  and  see  nobody  is  quite 
another.  To-day,  the  third  since  her  accident,  Miss  D'Arcy 
has  openly  rebelled,  and  has  insisted  not  only  on  being 
brought  downstairs  by  the  colonel  and  placed  on  the 
drawing-room  lounge,  but  on  seeing  whosoever  may  chance 
to  call 

Everybody  has  been  thoroughly  kind.  Everybody  has 
called  each  day.  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes  has  indeed  outdone 
herself  in  good-nature,  and  leaves  behind  her  the  impression 
that  she  must  have  literally  left  bare  her  houses,  which  are 


JL  IJFE'S  REMORSE.  |6» 

very  numerous,  to  judge  by  the  huge  baskets  of  grapes 
and  roses  she  has  brought  with  her  on  each  occasion  of  her 
calling.  Not  even  by  Mr.  Crawford  has  she  been  excelled, 
though  his  grapes  have  been  sent  down  in  a  lavish  profusion. 
It  is  a  real  good  time  for  the  younger  members  of  the 
D'Arcy  household.  They  have  understood  at  last  what  it 
must  be  like  to  sit  under  one's  own  vine.  Grapes  rain  upon 
them.  There  is  a  small  person  aged  five,  who  has  been 
proved  guilty  of  the  blood-curdling  hope,  that  "  Evelyn  will 
fall  over  the  rocks  every  day."  This  young  person  has  been 
threatened  with  a  spanking  if  he  says  it  again. 
-  Being  so  determined  to  re-enter  society,  Evelyn,  as 
usual,  gains  her  point.  Mrs.  D'Arcy  has  dressed  her  up  in 
a  dear  little  white  robe,  with  tiny  frillings  of  lace  every- 
where— a  present  from  Marian  after  one  of  her  Parisian 
trips.  The  frill  round  the  neck  seems  to  hug  the  pretty 
white  throat  for  very  love  of  it,  and  the  sleeves,  made  loose, 
fall  back  and  show  the  rounded  arms  beneath.  Her  soft 
hair  has  been  gathered  up  into  a  huge  loose  knot  on  the 
top  of  her  head. 

"  Well,  if  somebody  doesn't  call,  it  will  be  a  shame,"  says 
Mrs.  D'Arcy,  surveying  her  work  with  admiration.  "I 
never  saw  you  look  so  nice.  One  should  always  lie  on  a 
lounge,  and  wear  a  loose  white  frock,  and  be  a  little  ill,  to 
look  one's  best" 

11  Give  me  a  looking-glass,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy  promptly  ; 
roused  to  a  pleased  curiosity  by  these  thrilling  remarks, 

"  Don't  you  see  ?  "  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy. 

"Yes — ye-es.  I  know  what  you  mean.  You  would  like 
to  be  one  of  the  Roman  girls  in  Alma  Tadema's  pictures." 

"  /  should  ?  No.  But  I  think  you  might  be.  .1  dare- 
say he  would  paint  you  if  he  could  see  you  now." 

"I  daresay,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy  with  much  contempt. 
"Well,  I  hope  I'm  more  important  than  one  of  those 
Roman  girls,  anyway.  They  never  do  anything  but  sit  in  a 
marble  bath  and  eat  fruit  all  day  so  far  as  I  can  find  out." 

"It's  true,"   says  Mrs.  D'Arcy  thoughtfully.     "Whilst 

you " 

"  Can  fall  over  a  cliff  at  any  moment.  That's  what  you 
ought  to  say,  isn't  it  ?  "  says  Evelyn  with  a  little  laugh. 

"  I  must  go  and  see  about  the  jam,"  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy 
suddenly.  "  If  any  one  calls,  I  ;1  tell  Mary  to  show  them 
fc»  here ;  though  I  do  hope,  Evelyn,  it  won't  be  too  much 


t&  A  LIFTS 

for  you.  However,  so  far  as  my  opinion  goes,  I  dorrt 
think  cheerful  society  ever  did  anybody  harm.  But  the 
colonel " 

"Yes?  "  says  Evelyn  eagerly,  raising  herself  on  her  arm. 
*  The  colonel  is  worse,  than  ever  to-day,  isn't  he,  auntie  ? 
Nothing  fresh  about  that  horrid  business  is  there  ?  " 

"  No,  dear.     Nothing  fresh." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  Why  don't  you  look  at  me  ?  I  thought 
there  was  something  queer  about  him  as  he  carried  me 
down.  His  dear  arms  seemed  to  tremble.  Oh,  Kitty  !  " 
(in  supreme  moments  she  calls  her  by  her  Christian  name) 
«  I  do  hope " 

"  Now  don't  agitate  yourself,  Evelyn ;  you  know  the 
longer  you  are  laid  up  the  more  unhappy  we  shall  be.  For 
the  colonel's  sake  try  to  get  well,  and,"  with  a  little  break 
in  her  voice,  "  for  mine,  dear.  I  fear — I  fear  that  there 
are  bad  days  before  us." 

"  Oh ;  I  fear  it  too,"  says  the  girl  sadly.  "  Was  there 
another  letter  to-day  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Nothing  very  bad,  you  know ;  but  threatening 
always.  I'm  afraid  he  will  have  to  pay  th.it  money.  Well," 
with  a  sigh  and  a  brave  attempt  at  a  smile,  "  perhaps  we 
shan't  either.  No  one  can  ever  be  sure  of  anything  in  this 
life.  It  is  a  providential  arrangement  that  the  bad  and  the 
good  strokes  are  equally  uncertain.  Now  lie  quietly  there, 
darling,  and  rest  yourself,  and  I'll  be  back  as  soon  as  ever 
I  can.  But  you  know  what  Matilda  is  ?  "  Matilda  is  the 
cook.  A  good  many  of  us  know  what  Matilda  is. 

She  kisses  her  little  patient  and  disappears  by  one  door, 
almost  as  Crawford  is  ushered  into  Evelyn's  presence 
through  another. 

"  Oh  !  I'm  so  glad  you've  come,"  cries  Evelyn  with  a 
quick  smile  that  is  full  of  honest  pleasure.  "  I  thought  you 
would.  And  it  has  been  so  dull — so  dreadfully  dull,  ever 
since  I — spoiled  your  party  !  " 

"  Ever  since  my  unfortunate  party  spoiled  your  foot, 
rather.  Is  it  better  ?  Really.  I  have  brought  yon,"  taking 
a  small  phial  from  his  pocket,  "  a  lotion— a  strange  mingling 
of  strange  drugs,  that  I  learned  to  make  whilst  in  the  East. 
I  learned  many  things  there ;  though  the  things  I  sought 
failed  me.  It  will  act  like  a  charm.  I  should  have  brought 
it  sooner,  but  I  had  to  send  to  Paris  for  one  or  two  of  the 
ingredients." 


A  LIFE'S  BEMOR8K.  163 

"  How  kind  of  you.    You  were  in  the  East,  then  ?  n 

"  Yes.  Over  best  part  of  Asia ;  the  most  unknown 
parts.  For  ten  years  I  lived  there  amongst  the  tribes,  and 
learned  many  of  their  secrets." 

"  What  a  change  from  the  life  here,"  says  she  thought- 
fully. "  I  have  often  longed  for  something  like  that.  To 
get  away  entirely — to  another  state  of  being  altogether. 
And  you  have  really  lasted  it.  I  envy  you." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  need  not,"  returns  he  with  an  inscrutable 
smile.  He  is  silent  for  a  moment.  "  This  lotion  is  harm- 
less, but  powerful.  It  will  deaden  pain  at  once,  and  give  a 
quick  recovery  to  any  bruise.  And  your  foot  ?  Does  it 
hurt  you  much  ?  " 

"  A  little  always.  But  I  am  rather  ashamed  of  the  fuss 
I  have  made  over  it  Still,  Mr.  Crawford,"  looking  at  him 
imploringly,  "  I  don't  think  I  quite  spoiled  your  day,  did  I  ? 
It  was  nearly  over,  wasn't  it,  now  ?  when  I  fell  down  that 
awful  place,"  with  a  shudder.  She  pauses  here,  and  grows 
a  little  white  and  nervous. 

"  Why  will  you  return  to  it  ?  "  says  he  sharply.  "  Let  it 
alone.  You  spoiled  no  day ;  but  if  you  had  spoiled  a 
thousand,  do  you  think  they  would  count  against  a  single 
painful  throb  of  youis?  No;  believe  me!  " 

"  And  they  were  all  just  going  home,  weren't  they  ? 
They  didn't  lose  very  much  ?  I  have  been  rather  fretty 
about  it,"  says  she  nervously ;  "  because  one  hates  to  feel 
oneself  a  nuisance,  you  know,  and  Lady  Stamer " 

"  Oh  ! "  says  he,  rising  abruptly  to  his  feet.  An  un- 
pleasant adjective  coupled  with  Lady  Stamer's  name  falls 
in  a  dulled  fashion  on  the  air.  Evelyn  decides  to  take  no 
notice  of  it.  He  takes  a  turn  or  two  up  and  down  the 
room,  and  then  stands  still  beside  her,  looking  down  on 
her  lovely  pallid  face.  "You  are  better?  Tell  me  that. 
Anything  else  is  of  no  consequence,"  says  he  abruptly. 

"On  the  road  to  being  quite  well,"  says  she.  She 
pauses;  tears  grow  in  her  eyes.  She  looks  at  him  and 
finally  holds  out  her  hand  and  slips  it  into  his.  "Well, 
now"  says  she,  "but  only  for  you — if  you  had  not  been 
there ;  how  would  it  be  with  me  at  this  moment  ?  I 
should  be  dead — they  would  be  burying  me." 

"  Oh,  no !  "  cries  he,  so  fiercely  that  the  pain  of  the 
thought  becomes  apparent. 

"  But  yes,  indeed.     I  have  thought  it  all  over  and  I  aix 


i«4  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

sure  of  it.  That  horrible  depth  below  me  " — with  another 
swift  shiver — "I  seem  to  see  it  ahvays.  I  should  have 
gone  down — down — and — I  am  glad  I  fainted,"  says  sha 
with  a  little  gesture  that  betrays  the  horror  of  that  past 
moment.  "I  lost  something  of  the  fear  then;  but  what  I 
did  not  lose  is,  the  memory  of  your  coming  to  me.  Oh, 
the  relief  of  it  1 "  She  recovers  herself  a  little  and  smiles 
faintly.  "  I  owe  you  my  life,"  says  she;  '  you  saved  it." 

She  is  hardly  prepared  for  the  change  that  passes  over 
his  face  as  she  says  this.  He  rises  abruptly  and  with 
hurried  steps  strides  up  and  down  the  room.  He  seems 
almost  to  have  forgotten  her.  A  dark  flush  dyes  his  cheek 
and  brow. 

"  To  save  a  life  !     If  that  might  be  !    A  life  for  a  life ! 

Expiation  !     Value — value   received "   He  mutters  to 

himself  hurriedly ;  that  anxious  rapt  inward  look  she  had 
noticed  on  his  face  before,  is  here  now,  strongly  accentuated. 
But  even  as  she  dwells  on  it — it  fades. 

"  No,  no.  You  exaggerate  the  matter.  I  saved  no  life," 
says  he  with  something  of  despair  in  his  quiet  tone,  as  he 
drops  once  more  into  the  chair  beside  her,  "  I,"  with  a 
faint  smile,  "  could  not  be  so  fortunate.  I  was  happy  enough 
to  be  the  one  to  lift  you  from  your  unpleasant  position,  but 
believe  me  you  were  quite  safe  in  that  bush,  and  if  I  had 
not  come  to  your  rescue  a  hundred  others  would  have  done 
so." 

"  There  were  not  a  hundred  there." 

14  What  of  that  ?  One  would  have  sufficed  to  bring  you 
to  safe  quarters,  and  surely  there  was  one  " — he  looks  at 
her  intently — "  there  was  Stamer." 

"  Yes.  But  it  was  you  who  saved  me.  I  shall  never  for- 
get that. '  You  will  take  no  credit  to  yourself,"  says  she, 
smiling,  but  with  tears  in  her  earnest  eyes.  "  But  I  will 
give  you  credit  in  spite  of  yourself.  I  know  what  I  think  of 
you " 

She  is  so  sweet,  so  kind,  so  lovable,  and  wi  thai  so  pale 
and  fragile  a  little  creature,  that,  looking  at  her,  his  whole 
sound  judgment  gives  way,  and  thoughts,  beliefs,  hopes — 
hitherto  religiously  suppressed — give  way,  and  nature  springs 
into  sudden  power. 

Is  it — can  it  be  possible?  May  there  be  a  touch  of 
heaven  for  him  on  earth — for  /«>«,  to  whom  no  othct 
heaven  ever  can  be  known  ?  And  shall  he  grasp  it  ? 


A  LIFE'S  EEMOESB.  I«$ 

Inaction  seems  impossible  to  him.  He  leaves  her,  and 
Standing  by  the  window,  battles  wildly  with  a  conscience 
grown  strong  through  years  of  warfare.  Shall  it,  or  shall  it 
not  be  ?  Finally  he  comes  off,  as  he  believes,  full  victor, 
whilst  conscience  sits  in  shade  and  laughs  at  him,  waiting 
for  the  opportunities  that  are  so  sure  to  come. 

"  Evelyn,"  says  he,  in  a  dry,  harsh  tone,  that  is  yet  so  full 
of  love  and  tenderness  as  to  be  eloquence  itself,  "if  it  be 
possible  to  you,  take  pity  on  me."  He  has  come  away  from 
the  window  now  and  is  standing  by  her  couch  looking  down 
at  her,  a  world  of  longing  in  his  gaze.  "  I  am  old — I  am 
unlovable.  I  have  no  single  thing  to  make  me  desirable  in 
your  eyes — no  smallest  thing  to  commend  me  to  the  liking 
of  any  woman.  And  yet — I  have  dared  to  set  my  heart  on 
you !  You,  and  you  only,  I  love,  or  ever  have  loved.  Let 
me  love  you  ?  Let  me  marry  you." 

She  does  not  answer  immediately — a  minute  elapses,  and 
then: 

"  Oh)  no  !  "  says  she  faintly.  And  then  again,  "  Don't — 
don't."  She  struggles  into  a  sitting  posture,  regardless  of 
the  pain  it  costs  her,  and  holds  out  her  hands  to  him  in 
a  little  distressed  fashion. 

«  Oh  !    What  a  pity  ! "  says  she,     "  I " 

"  Not  another  word,"  says  Crawford  calmly.  He  presses 
her  hands,  releases  them,  and  pushing  back  his  chair  moves 
away  a  step  or  two.  His  head  has  fallen  a  little,  but  he  has 
so  placed  himself  that  he  stands  behind  her  lounge  and  is 
therefore  unseen  by  her.  Yet  somehow  she  knows  it  all, 
every  line,  every  throb,  as  women  do  who  have  any  heart 
at  all. 

He  feels  numbed — uncertain — a  little  cold,  physically. 
All  through  the  sharp  pain  that  is  racking  him  he  is  conscious 
that  he  is  asking  himself  idly  and  indifferently  whether 
there  is  not  a  draught  somewhere ;  through  that  door  or 
through  that  window  ?  No — no,  of  course  not ;  it  is  folly. 
They  would  not  let  a  draught  play  upon  her. 

And  this — this  ruined  hope  of  his — it  had  been  a  folly 
too.  How  had  he  ever  been  mad  enough  to  believe  that  she 
would  consent  to  spend  her  life  with  him  ?  With  him  I 
Even  as  he  stands  here,  grey-headed,  old  enough  to  be  her 
father,  the  madness  of  it  is  apparent  enough.  And  if  she 
knew  all.  If  all  was  laid  bare  before  her,  and  she  could  see 
\Q  brand  of  Cai»  lying  (to  him)  so  largely  writ  upon  his 


166  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

brow  that  he  marvels  how  any  soul  who  runs  can  help  but 
read  it—  how  then  ? 

Children,  they  say,  are  sharp  to  see ;  and  she,  what  is  she 
but  a  child  ?  How  is  it  she  has  not  seen  that  crimson  stain  ? 

Well,  it  is  at  an  end.  He  makes  a  little  strange,  subdued, 
finite  gesture  with  his  hands.  We  are  all  mad  at  times.  No 
doubt  his  maddest  moment  overcame  him  a  while  since, 
when  he  asked  her  to  marry  him.  In  his  sound  senses  he 
could  not  have  done  it.  It  is  over — it  is  over.  He  is 
back  in  his  normal  state,  where  only  the  secret  remorse  that 
haunts  him  night  and  day  has  any  right  to  be  For  him  there 
must  be  no  joy,  no  sweetness,  no  light.  He  but  courted  an 
additional  turn  of  the  torture  screw  when  he  dreamt  of  it. 

He  is  vaguely  aware  of  a  sense  of  cruel  satisfaction  in  the 
thought  that  now  he  is  suffering  even  more  keenly  than 
usual.  A  fresh  element  of  misery  has  fallen  into  his  lot. 
No  alleviation  of  his  ever  present  melancholy  is  to  be 
possible  to  him.  He  has  sinned.  It  is  but  just  that  he 
shall  suffer  now.  Perhaps,  at  the  last  there  may  be  pardon 
—expiation. 

A  heavy  sigh  bursts  from'  him.  A  sense  of  passionate 
revolt  shakes  his  very  soul.  Oh,  for  one  touch  of  present 
bliss,  and  let  the  future  destroy  him  as  it  will ! 

With  a  violent  start  he  comes  back  to  the  fact  that  Evelyn 
has  risen  on  her  elbow  and  has  turned  her  face  to  his.  With 
both  her  own  small  hands  she  takes  one  of  his,  and  presses 
it  imploringly. 

M  Mr.  Crawford,"  says  she,  "  don't  be  angry  with  me.  I 
couldn't  help  it." 

"  Angry  ! "  cries  he  with  a  burst  of  vehemence.  "  Not 
angry.  Brokenhearted,  if  you  will,  but  not  angry." 

"  Oh,  but  that  is  worse  ! "  exclaims  she  miserably.  "  Oh, 
do  not  be  that  either."  She  struggles  with  herself  ineffec- 
tually, and  in  the  end  bursts  into  tears.  "  It  is  my  fault," 
sobs  she  bitterly,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands.  "  But 
indeed  I  did  not  mean  it." 

"  My  darling !  My  poor  child,"  says  Crawford.  "All  this 
is  too  much  for  you.  I  am  selfish — thoughtless.  I  entreat 
you,  Evelyn,  to  be  calm,  to  remember  how  weak  you  still 
must  be.  As  for  me — what  am  I  ?  Why  should  you  trouble 
yourself  in  this  way  about  me  ?  Yet  your  tears — such  blessed 

tears  of  sympathy — should  surely  help  to  wash  away •. 

There,  there,  now,  be  sensible,  iny  dear.  I  have  unnerved 


A  LIFE'S  KEMORSB.  167 

you.  It  was  only  a  dream,  Evelyn — a  foolish  dream  of  mine 
— an  old  man's  dream.  Forget  it !  Let  us  be  the  friends 
we  have  been  up  to  this." 

"Oh,  that  we  might  be ! "  says  she  sorrowfully.  She  knows 
instinctively  that  the  old  pleasant  relations  between  them 
can  never  be  quite  the  same  again. 

"Let  nothing  come  between  us,"  says  he  earnestly.  Yet 
there  is  a  reflection  of  her  own  thought  in  his  face  as  he 
bends  over  her,  and  presses  a  farewell  kiss  upon  her  cold  little 
hand. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

OUTSIDE  he  comes  face  to  face  with  Captain  Stamen  The 
two  men  exchange  the  barest  greetings,  but  even  in  the 
short  time  it  takes  to  make  the  most  barren  of  salutations 
Stamer  has  been  able  to  read  the  signs  of  agitation  that  lie 
round  Crawford's  mouth  and  shine  in  his  melancholy  eyes. 
They  ought  to  have  produced  sympathy,  but  the  younger 
man  is  only  sensible  of  an  increased  resentment,  mingled 
with  a  sense  of  contemptuous  anger,  that  takes  him  into 
Miss  D'Arcy's  presence  in  a  far  from  amicable  mood. 

The  sight  of  Evelyn's  tear-stained  eyes,  and  cheeks  whiter 
than  snow,  has  not  the  effect  of  softening  these  feelings. 

"  What  has  happened  ? "  exclaims  he,  putting  strong 
pressure  on  himself,  and  trying  to  speak  sympathetically. 
"  Something  has  distressed  you  ?  "  He  looks  down  at  her 
in  a  terribly  interrogative  fashion.  He  is  unaware  of  the 
distinct  disapproval  that  is  in  his  whole  air.  Of  this  he  is 
unconscious ;  the  one  thing  of  which  he  t's  conscious  at  this 
instant  is,  that  it  is  unbearable  to  him  that  Crawford  should 
have  had  it  in  his  power  to  make  her  cry. 

"Nothing — nothing  at  all,"  says  she,  colouring  hotly. 
She  feels  the  disapproval  and  resents  it.  The  one  had 
thought  only  of  her  pain,  the  other  in  his  selfishness  is 
thinking  only  of  himself.  She  forgets  the  fact  that  his  sel- 
fishness rises  out  of  his  love  for  her,  and  that  to  all  women 
such  selfishness  is  sweet.  "  Call  it  pain,  anything  you  will 
After  all,"  with  a  very  poor  attempt  at  a  smile,  "  I  have  not 
so  much  pluck  as  you  thought  I  had,  have  I  ?  A  sprained 
ankle,  that  isn't  even  properly  sprained,  should  not  do  one 
up  so  entirely,  should  it  ?  " 


|63  A  LIFE'S  EEMOI5.SE. 

"  No,"  says  he.  Her  pathetic  little  questions  have  not 
reduced  him  to  a  proper  frame  of  mind.  He  is  not  struck 
to  contrition  by  her  pale  face.  She  compares  him  with  her 
last  visitor,  and  the  comparison  seems  to  reduce  Stamer  to 
a  terribly  low  level.  As  for  him,  he  is  thinking  only  that 
she  is  concealing  something  from  him;  something  about 
Crawford  1  Great  heaven  !  A  man  old  enough  to  be  her 
grandfather !  This  is  a  palpable  exaggeration.  But  a  man 
in  a  temper  should  always  be  allowed  a  wide  margin. 

"You  see  it  isn't  a  sprain,  exactly,"  says  Evelyn,  now 
bent  on  confining  herself  to  the  conventional  society  talk, 
"  Dr.  Bland  was  here  this  morning,  and  I  am  sure  you  will 
be  glad  to  hear  that  he  says  it  \vili  be  nothing — that  I  shall 
be  quite  myself  again  in  a  day  or  two." 

"  That  is  very  good  news,"  in  a  tone  that  would  not  hava 
been  out  of  place  at  the  reading  of  a  will. 

"Thank  you.  I  knew  you  would  like  to  hear  it.  I 

should  count  myself  fortunate "  she  breaks  off  here, 

and  a  light  comes  into  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  more"  cries  she — 
"  I  should  feel  thankful !  If  Mr.  Crawford  had  not  caught 
me  when  he  did,  I  should " 

"  He  was  fortunate,"  interrupts  Stamer  gloomily.  "  But 
there  is  no  reason  for  deifying  him.  I — any  one  of  us 
there — would  have  brought  you  up  safe  and  sound  if  he 
hadn't." 

"  Oh,  I  know  that.  I  feel  it,"  says  she  graciously.  "  But 
you  see — he  did  it." 

"  Yes.  That  will  be  a  reproach  to  us  for  ever.  I  see 
what  you  mean."  His  manner  at  all  events  is  ungracious- 
ness itself. 

"  I  don't  think  you  do.  I  mean  only  that  I  cannot  for- 
get that  I  owe  my  life  to  Mr.  Crawford." 

"You  do  not"  says  he  passionately.  "There  was  no 
question  of  death.  Were  we  all  cowards  or  fools  save  that 
one  man  ?  You  have  known  me  a  long  time,  Evelyn — was 
J  likely  to  desert  you  at  such  a  moment  ?  I  was  on  the 
point  of  dropping  over,  when — he  forestalled  me.  And  if 
/had  not  been  there,  Bertram  would  have  gone  to  you, 
or  else  Batty." 

"  How  many  friends  one  has,"  says  she,  smiling  at  him 
with  a  pretty  gratitude.  "  How  can  I  tell  you  how  grateful 
I  am  ?  But,"  softly,  "you  would  not  have  me  b<e  ungrate- 
ful, would  you?" 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  869 

"Ungrateful?" 

"  To  Mr.  Crawford,"  says  she  in  her  little  gentle  way. 

"Certainly  not,"  with  much  viitue,  but  increased  ill-, 
temper. 

"That's  what  I  thought,"  sweetly.  "Ingratitude,  the 
ancients  tell  ns,  is  the  worst  of  all  vices." 

"Then  I'm  afraid  you  have  been  guilty  of  it."  He 
pauses  as  he  looks  at  her  and  there  is  an  undeniable  touch 
of  satisfaction  in  his  tone.  "  I  saw  Crawford  as  he  left  the 
hi?use.w 

"  Well  ?  "  A  wise  man  would  have  been  warned  by  her 
eyes.  But  when  was  a  lover  wise? 

'•Well  ?     And  I  found  you  in  tears." 

"That  might  argue  him  ungrateful." 

"  It  might.  But  somehow  it  doesn't.  Time  is  of  some 
small  value  now  and  then,  and  these  last  two  months  have 
not  left  me  entirely  ignorant.  The  coming  to  conclusions, 
too,  is  a  matter  not  given  over  entirely  to  oneself." 

"  What  does  this  all  lead  up  to  ?  "  demands  she  shortly. 

"  To  the  fact  that  he  proposed  to  you  to-day — and  was 
rejected." 

The  note  of  malignant  triumph  in  the  last  assertion  is 
abominable. 

.  u  All  that  is  a  sort  of  a  question,"  says  she  coldly.  "  It 
is,  if  you  will  forgive  me  for  saying  it,  a  kind  of  mean  way 
of  finding  out  things." 

11  Is  h  ?  Then  I  will  put  it  in  blunt  English.  Did  he 
propose  to  you  to-day  ?  and  did  you  refuse  him  ?  " 

"Ah  ! "  says  she  with  a  slight  return  of  the  mischief  that 
Is  so  largely  ingrained  in  her.  "  Now  that  is  something 
like  a  respectable  cross-examination." 

"  Well,  will  you  answer  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  question,"  says  she  with  a  quick  touch  of  hauteur, 
,*'  that  neither  you  nor  any  other  man  has  any  right  to  ask." 

She  has  grown  a  little  pale. 

"That  means  that  I  have  guessed  rightly." 

"You  are  very  rude,"  says  she  coldly.  "  Mr.  Crawford 
came  here  to-day  merely  to  ask  how  I  was,  and  whether 
S*y  foot  was  very  painful.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen 
Mm  since  he  rescued  me  from  that  terrible  position,  and  I 
felt  nervous,  and  I — I " 

"  Oh  t    That  will  do,"  says  he  with  a  short  laugh,  rising 
pushing  back  bis  chair  abruptly.    "  Pray  don't  go  on 


17»  A  LIFE'S 

with  it.  You  do  it  very  badly.  Well,"  with  a  note  of  bittel 
satisfaction,  "you  have  refused  him  anyway — that's  some- 
thing gained.  And  serve  him  right  too  1  The  presumption 

of " 

"  Stop,  Eaton !  I  should  advise  you  not  to  go  on  "with 
it,"  says  she,  extreme  anger  in  her  voice.  "  You  too  do  it 
very  badly.  I  beg  you  to  remember  yourself." 

"  Have  I  forgotten  ?  "  demands  he,  looking  sternly  down 
at  her. 

"  Almost.  /  saved  you,"  says  she  with  a  touch  of  con- 
tempt. "  Mr.  Crawford  is  my  friend,  as  you  know,  and  you 
come  here  to  abuse  him  to  me.  Could  anything  be  in 
worse  taste  ?  " 

"  A  few  things,  as  it  seems  to  me,"  with  a  flash  from  his 
dark  eyes.  "  Your  sudden  friendship  for  this  adventurer, 
for  example." 

"  It  is  absurd  to  talk  like  that,"  says  the  girl  indignantly. 
"All  the  world  knows  who  Mr.  Crawford's  people  are." 

"  All  the  world  knows  too  that  his  people  seem  very  slow 
about  taking  any  notice  of  him." 

"  Of  course  I  don't  know  what  he  has  done  to  you,"  says 
Miss  D'Arcy,  "to  rouse  the<e  revengeful  feelings  in  your 
breast,  but  to  be  unjust  is  to  be  foolish.  Do  you  think  if 
Mr.  Crawford's  people  had  really  tabooed  him,  the  reason 
for  it  would  not  have  filtered  here  ?  If  you  were  not  so 
blindly  prejudiced  you  would  know  that  to  keep  secret  any- 
thing is  impossible  now-a-days.  I  daresay  the  real  truth  is 
that  he  dislikes  his  people,  that  they  are  disagreeable  to  him, 
and  that  he  likes  to  be  alone.  To  me  it  seems  quite  pos- 
sible that  people  might  pfove  disagreeable  and  that  one 
would  sometimes  like  to  be  alone." 

"  Is  that  a  hint  ?  "  says  he  with  an  abominable  laugh. 
"  I  never  hint !  "  says  Miss  D'Arcy  wath  justifiable  scorn. 
"  When  I  want  to  say  a  thing,  I  say  it" 
"  You  do  I "  says  he. 

Now,  although  f&is  last  speech  conveys  a  distinct  agree- 
ing with  her,  it  somehow  angers  her  more  than  anything 
that  has  gone  before. 

"  Why  do  you  speak  to  me  like  that,  Eaton? "  says  she, 
sitting  up  a  little,  and  not  even  feeling  the  pain  in  her  foot 
as  she  does  so.  "  Why  should  you  come  here  to-day  to  be 
rude  to  me  ?  If  you  think  you  can  induce  me  to  change 
mv  opinion  about  Mr.  Crawford  you  do  not  know  me.  J 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  171 

understand  him,  if  you  don't.  He  was  unhappy  when  he 
came  here ;  why,  I  do  not  know — I  do  not  want  to  know 
— and  now  " — with  a  little  quiver  of  emotion  that  softens 
her  charming  if  angry  face — "  I  am  afraid  he  is  unhappicr 
still.  But  I  believe  him  to  be  the  kindest,  the  best  man 
in  the  world." 

"  A  tremendous  character  to  give  any  one  on  so  short  a 
notice." 

"  I  know  him  at  least  to  be  supremely  charitable." 
"As  I  warned  you  just  now,  you  know  nothing  whatevei 
about  him  beyond  his  name — which  I  hope  is  his." 

"  I  know  him  to  be  charitable,''  persists  she,  two  crimson 
spots  dyeing  her  chetks  in  the  heat  of  the  argument. 

"  And  that,  you  think,  will  cover  a  multitude  of  sins.  Well, 
I  daresay  it  will  be  of  use  to  him." 

"  At  all  events  I  know  somebody  whose  sins  will  have  to 
go  without  that  clothing." 

Stamer  laughs.  There  is  not  much  mirth  in  his  laugh,  it 
must  be  confessed. 

"You  needn't  be  at  such  pains  to  give  me  your  true  opinion 
of  me,"  says  he.  "I  can  guess  at  it.  But  this  Crawford 
now — this  Admirable  Crichton  of  yours — how  is  it  that  you 
find  him  so  far  above  the  common  herd  ?  " 

"  It  is  very  easy  to  sneer,"  says  she.  "  But  it  is  not  so 
easy  to  be  as  good  a  man  as  Mr.  Crawford.  You  should 
hear  Mr.  Vaudrey  speak  of  him,  and  I  suppose  he  is  a  judge 
of  what  a  good  man  should  be." 

"  The  last  judge  in  the  world.  Mr.  Vaudrey  is  himself  so 
full  of  the  divine  milk  of  human-kindness  that  he  can  see 
sin  in  no  man.  All  his  geese  are  swans.  Were  he  to 
tell  me  Crawford  was  a  saint  it  would  be  to  me  an  addi- 
tional spur  to  look  out  for  the  hoofs  somewhere.  To  Mr. 
Vaudrey,  because  Crawford  lavishes  his  money  on  the  old 
hypocrites  that  live  on  him,  Vaudrey — his  new  neighbour 
appears  possessed  of  all  the  virtues.  Yet  this  new  neighbour 

of  ours  is  in  all  probability  as  great  an  adventurer  as " 

"  I  will  not  hear  you  speak  of  him  like  that,"  interrupts 
she,  flushing  hotly.  "  I  will  hear  nothing  against  him  " 

"  Oh,  if  he  is  a  sacred  subject ! "  says  he  with  a  sneer. 
He  pauses.  There  is  indeed  a  little  silence  that  is  growing 
fast  toward  awkwardness  when  she  breaks  it. 

"  I  am  tired,"  says  she  coldly.  "  It  is  the  pain,  perhaps, 
or  perhaps  it  is " 


I7»  A  LIFE'S  BEMOR3K, 

"  Yes,  it  is  my  fault,"  says  he  quickly.    "  T  know  what  yon 

are  thinking — that  I  am  a  brute."    He  has  grown  rather  pale. 

"  Oh,  no,  you  mustn't  blame  yourself,"  says  she,  still  very 

coldly.     "  You  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.     Please  do 

not  blame  yourself!    But — I  am  tired  really.    I  should  like 

to  be  alone.     If  you  would  not  mind,  my " 

"  Certainly  not ! "  says  he,  rising.  "  I  very  much  regret 
you  did  not  give  me  a  hint  to  go  sooner."  He  is  feeling 
chilled — thrown  back  upon  himself  by  her  unfriendly  man- 
ner. "  For  the  matter  of  that,"  says  he  with  a  conventional 
smile,  "  I  am  going  away  not  only  for  to-day  but  for  a  good 
many  days  to  come.  We  have  been  ordered  to  Dublin.  I 
start  to-morrow.  I  shall  not  see  you  again  for  some  time." 
"  Oh  I"  says  she.  A  little  delicate  flush  flies  to  her  bro  v, 
and  now,  receding,  leaves  her  very  white.  After  a  mouien, 
she  looks  up  at  him. 

"  Marian  is  leaving  too  ?  "  says  she, 
"Yes." 

"  She  too  is  going  to  Ireland  ?  " 
•'  Yes." 

"  That  will  be  pleasant  for  both  of  you.M 
"  Yes." 

"  Is  she  too  going  to  Dublin  ?" 
"  Yes." 

"Ah!"  says  she.  After  this  stiff  cross  examination  sho 
sinks  back  upon  her  seat  as  though  exhausted  bodily  and 
mentally. 

A  lengthened  pause  ensues.  All  those  yeses  had  fallen 
from  him  mechanically ;  he  had  heard  her  words  indeed, 
but  his  thoughts  had  been  miles  away.  The  thrumming  of 
a  huge  bumble  bee  upon  the  window  pane,  enraged  at  its 
imprisonment,  is  the  only  sound  that  breaks  the  oppressive 
stillness  of  the  day. 

"  I  shan't  be  back  till  Christmas,"  says  the  young  man  at 
last,  without  looking  up.  If  he  had  said,  "  I  shan't  be  back 
for  ten  years,"  his  voice  could  not  have  been  more  melan- 
choly. 

"  Christmas  is  not  very  far  off,"  says  she  quite  calmly. 
"  True,"  says  he.  All  his  melancholy  seems  to  be  dis- 
persed on  the  moment ;  a  determined  hardness  takes  its 
place.  "  To  some  of  us,  no  doubt,  it  sounds  as  though  it 
were  even  ntar.  Well,"  coming  closer  to  her  and  holding 
out  his  hand — "  Good-bye." 


A  LIFE'S  BEMOESB.  IJ2 

"Good-bye,"  returns  she,  letting  him  take  her  slim  little 
hand,  but  refusing  to  return  his  pressure,  \vhich  indeed  had 
been  slight.  That  hers  trembles  in  his,  he  knows,  but  he 
pu's  that  touch  of  nervousness  down  to  the  weakness  from 
which  she  has  been  suffering. 

He  takes  up  his  hat,  holds  it  irresolutely,  and  then  looks 
down  at  her  again. 

"  There  is  one  thing,"  says  he.  "  You  have  accused  me 
of  being  unjust.  I  have  done  you  this  much  justice  at 
least.  I  believed  from  the  first — I  knew — you  would  not 
marry  Crawford." 

"A  simple  belief,"  says  she  contemptuously — not  knowing! 

At  the  door  he  pauses,  and  looks  back  again.  A  wo;d, 
a  glance,  would  have  recalled  him  to  her  for  ever,  but  no 
such  word  comes.  Will  he  ever  forget  that  slight  fragile 
form  lying  so  prone  upon  the  old  lounge,  that  pretty  white 
face,  the  gleaming  eyes — the  unkindly  eyes — and  beyond 
them  all,  the  cruel  careless  smile  ? 

"Goodbye  !"  says  he  again,  lingering,  as  though  uncon- 
sciously hoping  for  a  recall  that  is  not  in  one  of  her  thoughts. 

"Good-bye!  Bon  voyage!"  smiles  she,  concealing  to 
the  last,  as  only  a  woman  can,  the  grief  and  despair  that  is 
tearing  her  heart  in  two.  She  even  waves  him  a  little  idle 
adieu  with  her  hand. 

Stamer,  as  though  overcome  by  this  last  token  of  her 
indifference,  gees  out  quickly,  drawing  the  door  after  him 
with  rather  unnecessary  violence. 

When  he  is  quite  gone,  when  the  last  sound  of  his  footsteps 
has  died  away  upon  the  hall  outside,  Evelyn  lets  her  head 
fall  back  upon  her  cushions. 

"He  does  not  love  far,"  says  she  with  a  slow' certainty 
that  has  yet  no  joy  or  triumph  in  it.  "  No.  Not  a  bit. 
But" — she  pauses  here  and  a  long  low  heavy  sigh  parts 
her  colourless  lips — "  but  he  loves  no  one  else  either  /  " 

All  life's  despair  seems  to  rest  in  this  certainty.  She  moves 
her  head  a  little  to  one  side,  as  though  seeking  that  wall  to 
which  we  all  turn  when  the  extremity  of  grief  and  sorrow  haa 
found  a  home  with  us.  Her  long  follies,  fall  upon  her  cheeks 
as  if  to  hide  her  eyes,  but  tears  rush  from  beneath  the  tired 
lids  and  chase  each  other  in  sad  fashion  down  the  pallitf 
cheeks,  betraying  the  secret  that  those  eyes  would  hide. 

Oh  1    If  he  could  have  loved  her  1 


t>4  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

Meanwhile  he,  who  not  only  could  have  !oVed  her  bu^ 
does  love  her,  is  striding  through  the  hall,  and  is  feeling 
quite  a  vindictive  pleasure  in  hearing  the  hall- door  slaw 
behind  him  to  such  a  report  as  might  be  reasonably  sup- 
posed sufficient  to  rouse  the  neighbourhood. 

The  neighbourhood  not  rising,  however,  he  strides  down 
the  avenue  in  a  complete  solitude  most  conducive  to  learned 
thought. 

Such  thought,  however,  is  far  from  him.  His  thoughts 
at  present  are  distinctly  commonplace,  and  have  one  young 
woman  for  their  motive  power.  The  one  fell  question  as  to 
whether  he  hates  or  loves  her  most  is  agitating  his  bosom. 

How  changed  she  is  I  How  unapproachable  !  What  has 
happened  to  her  ?  He  used  to  think  she  liked  him  beyond 
most  of  her  friends,  and  now 

A  month  ago  she  was  the  gayest  creature  alive,  the  veriest 
child  of  nature,  taking  all  things  as  they  came,  and  enjoying 
them ;  but  to-day  she  was  a  woman,  and  an  unfeeling  one. 

She  didn't  care  a  screw  about  his  going  away.  That  was 
apparent !  He  would  be  a  fool  indeed,  a  greater  fool  even 
than  he  has  been,  to  believe  anything  less  than  that.  She 
had  cared  nothing.  She  had  been  a  perfect  block  of  ice 
when  he  mentioned  it  to  her. 

Christmas  to  her  had  not  seemed  so  far  away ;  it  had 
seemed  indeed  as  to-morrow  or  any  other  near  date  !  Well, 
vhy  shouldn't  it  ?  It  is  a  near  date.  A  month  or  two  or 
feree — what  is  that  in  the  life  of  any  man  ? 

And  after  all,  by  Jove,  there's  balm  in  Gilead !  She 
has  refused  that  damned  fellow  anyway.  Confound  him  ! 
Would  nothing  suit  him  but  a  girl  young  enough  to  be  his 
grand-daughter  ? 

Stamer  with  an  indignant  cut  of  his  stick  takes  the  head 
off  two  or  three  unoffending  dandelions,  and  with  a  heavy 
sigh  turns  into  the  path  that  will  take  him  homewai 4§» 


CHAPTER  XXXIL 

THE  autumn  lias  come.  The  short,  sweet,  thriftless  summer 
has  died  away.  So  full  of  joys  it  was — so  prodigal  of  them 
— and  with  so  little  fear  of  the  desolation  that  was  bound  to 
follow.  And  as  the  summer  hopes  had  died,  so  died  those 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  f/f 

of  the  co!onel  When  the  early  golden  autumn  had  given 
place  to  the  first  touch  of  winter,  dour  and  hard — the  blow 
fell. 

It  had  been  hoping  against  hope  all  along,  but  the  colonel, 
being  Irish,  had  never  brought  himself  to  believe  that  hope 
might  be  a  gay  deceiver.  We  all  of  us  know  the  fickle  light- 
winged  thing  to  be  disgracefully  full  of  guile  at  times,  but 
the  colonel  was  altogether  too  faithful  a  child  of  nature  to 
dare  to  question  the  righteousness  of  any  of  her  sons,  and 
so  gave  hope  a  warm  berth  in  his  heart.  When,  therefore, 
the  crash  came  and  the  cruel  creature  flew  away  for  ever, 
despair  ensued. 

"  It  is  no  use  thinking  about  it.  It  is  all  over,"  says  the 
colonel,  putting  down  the  letter  he  had  just  been  reading. 
He  had  been  about  to  begin  his  breakfast,  but  the  letter  Jiad 
absorbed  all  the  appetite.  He  is  looking  pale  and  faint. 

"  What  is  it,  dear  ?  "  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy,  rising  too,  and 
growing  very  colourless.  "Don't  look  like  that,  George. 
Nothing  can  be  altogether  bad  so  long  as  we  are  all  here- 
all  of  us,"  with  a  swift  glance  round  the  table,  where  the 
children,  spellbound,  are  gazing  at  their  father  with  not 
entirely  unpleasurable  consternation  on  their  faces.  Children 
love  a  row. 

"  It's  come ! "  says  the  colonel,  pointing  to  the  letter. 
**  I  knew  it  would ! "  He  certainly  never  had  known  it,  but 
no  one  has  the  heart  to  remind  him  of  that  now.  "  We 
must  sell  everything — every  stick." 

" Oli,  colonel !  Not  the  colt"  cries  Evelyn,  with  a  burst 
of  grief. 

"  Everything,  I  said,"  with  a  sternness  meant  to  conceal 
a  disposition  to  tears  that  is  strong  upon  him.  "  Would 
you  have  rae  be  a  swindler  such  as  he  was  ?  Everything 
goes,  I  tell  you — house,  place,  furniture — all." 

"  Oh  !  the  house,  George — the  house !  "  says  his  wife,  as 
though  the  words  are  forced  from  her.  The  house  where 
all  her  children  were  born,  where  each  room  is  full  of  its 
own  sweet  and  tender  memories.  Women,  like  cats,  cling 
to  the  roof  that  covers  them. 

"  The  house  too,"  says  the  colonel,  with  terrible  deter- 
mination. He  looks  ready  to  sink  with  fatigue.  "How," 
cries  he  angrily,  ijdo  you  imagine  I  am  to  get  ^2,000! 
Why  I  haven't  2,000  pence,  and  yet  you  goad  me " 

**Yes,  I  was  wrong,"  says  she  quickly,  heroically;   "I 


176  &  JJFE'S  REHOUSE. 

can  see  at  once  how  it  is.  Don't  mind  me,  dear;  it  was 
but  a  momentary  impulse  that  made  me  say  that." 

"  Oh  !  I  know  what  you  are  thinking,"  cries  the  colone\ 
fiercely.  "  That  I  have  defrauded  you  and  the  children  ; 
that  I  have  taken  the  bread  out  of  your  mouths  ;  that  I " 

"You  wrong  me,  George,"  says  she,  so  clearly  yet  so 
calmly  that  she  quiets  him  at  once.  It  is  the  first  time  in 
all  his  life  that  he  has  spoken  roughly  to  her,  but  with  a 
heart  bleeding  for  his  grief  she  understands  how  it  is  with 
him  and  takes  no  heed.  "Tell  me  what  you  think  we  had 
better  do,"  says  she. 

"We  must  sell  this  place  and  go  back  to  Ireland,  to  that 
bog  of  ours,  and  try  there  to  keep  body  and  soul  togethei 
as  best  we  may." 

"  Well,  well ;  we  should  be  grateful  that  we  have  a  home 
somewhere,"  says  she  softly,  hopefully. 

"  Oh  !  can  no  one  help  us  ?  "  cries  Evelyn  suddenly. 

"  Now,  look  here,"  says  the  colonel,  turning  passionately 
upon  her.  "  Once  for  all,  Evelyn,  mind  this  !  I  will  have 

no  one  consulted  about  this  matter,  or  appealed  to,  or . 

I  will  have  no  pity,  mind  you,  and  as  assuredly  will  I  have 
no  help.  I  sink  or  I  swim  by  myself."  He  stops  short 
here  and  his  eyes  fall  upon  the  pretty  curly  heads,  all  turned, 
as  if  by  one  consent,  towards  him.  "  Oh  1 "  cries  he  in  a 
terrible  voice,  "  that  it  was  by  myself." 

"  George,  would  you  cast  us  off — would  you  be  rid  of  us  ?  " 
cries  his  wife,  with  a  dry  heavy  sob. 

"  No,  no,  no,"  says  the  poor  colonel.  "  But  I  have  got 
myself  into  this  hobble,  and  it  is  my  own  affair,  and — don't 
let  it  be  made  a  matter  of  gossip,"  he  casts  a  miserable 
glance  at  Evelyn.  "  I  did  it  with  my  eyes  open.  I  have 
ruined  all  of  you  for  want  of  a  little  thought,  and  may  God 
forgive  me  for  it  and  you,  Kitty " 

He  breaks  down  here  and  turns  away  towards  the  door. 
He  looks  old,  bowed,  broken.  His  handsome  head  has 
junk  upon  his  breast,  but  before  he  can  reach  the  door  his 
wife's  arms  are  round  him,  and  as  though  unable  to  bear  the 
sight  of  that  lowered  head,  she  has  raised  it  with  one  im- 
patient hand  and  compelled  him  to  look  her  in  her  faithful 
eyes. 

Evelyn  has  burst  into  tears.  The  younger  children  are 
huddled  together  in  a  frightened  group,  whilst  Jimmy,  like 
many  self-contained  and  tearless  boys  (who,  God  help  them, 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  177 

fee!  the  most),  sits  motionless,  horrified,  unnerved,  not 
knowing  what  to  do,  yet  longing  to  do  something.  The 
youngest  child  in  the  room  giving  way  to  a  sad  little  whimper, 
Jimmy  turns  upon  her  with  a  scowl  that  only  has  the  effect 
of  turning  the  whimper  into  a  roar.  In  fact,  the  youngsters 
are  now  thoroughly  alarmed.  Their  baby  faces  are  drawn 
and  scared.  Father  to  cry  ! 

"  Go  into  your  own  room,  dear — I'll  be  with  you  in  a 
moment,"  whispers  Mrs.  D'Arcy  to  her  husband.  She  has 
him  out  of  the  breakfast-parlour  in  no  time,  and,  still  very 
white  and  cold,  comes  back  to  the  table. 

"  Oh,  Kitty,  can  nothing  be  done  ?  "  cries  Evelyn,  going 
up  to  her. 

"  Many,  many  things,"  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy.  "  But  if  you 
mean  about  our  leaving  Firgrove,  I  think  nothing.  But, 
Evelyn,  what  does  it  matter  so  much  ?  You  are  all  well,  and 
the  Lord  is  good,  and  He  will  help  us.  The  thing  now  to 
be  considered  is  your  uncle." 

She  is  going  round  the  table  as  she  speaks,  pouring  out 
a  cup  of  tea,  getting  together  toast  and  butter  and  poached 
eggs,  and  putting  them  all  on  a  tray. 

"  He  will  be  hungry.  He  must  be  kept  up.  The  grief  is 
killing  him,"  says  she,  going  about  her  work  dry  eyed,  and 
thrusting  from  her  even  the  child  of  her  heart,  the  "  baby," 
as  he  tries  to.  cling  to  her.  Nothingrousk  interfere  with  the 
task  she  has  assigned  herself  of  trying  to  support  and  com- 
fort the  colonel  under  his  trouble.  Even  Baby  must  give 
way  to  him  to-day. 

"  Oh  !  Kitty,  if  I  could  only  help,"  says  Evelyn  miserably. 

"  So  you  can,  Evelyn.  You  can,  indeed,  darling.  You 
know  what  a  blessing  you  always  have  been  in  ihis  house." 

"But  now — a  burden,"  says  the  girl  rather  forlornly. 

Mrs.  D'Arcy,  putting  down  the  tray,  turns  upon  her  two 
reproachful  eyes,  brilliant  with  tears. 

"  Am  I  not  suffering  enough,  then  ?  Must  you  too  try 
to  break  my  heart  ?  "  says  she. 

"  Oh,  no,  auntie !  Oh,  no,  dearest,  dearest  Kitty  ! "  cries 
the  girl,  flinging  her  arms  round  her.  "There — there. 
Don't  mind  me.  I  am  ungrateful !  Go  to  him,"  says  she, 
pushing  Mrs.  D'Arcy  towards  the  door.  "  Nobody  should 
be  thought  of  now  but  him.  But  wait,  Kitty,  wait !  You 
have  forgotten  the  pepper,  and  you  know  how  fond  he  is  of 
pepper  with  his  poached  eggs." 

M 


I7§      *  *  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

Still  sobbing  softly,  she  places  the  pepper  castor  on 
the  tray,  and  having  seen  Mrs.  D'Arcy  disappear,  gives 
Jimmy  some  directions  about  the  disposal  of  the  children 
for  the  afternoon,  and  slips  away  into  the  garden. 

Here  she  can  think  matters  out  without  fear  of  interrup- 
tion, and  here  she  will  be  near  to  Kitty — Kitty,  poor 
darling,  who  will  be  sure  to  want  her  presently. 

It  is  a  dull  and  chilly  day — sad  as  the  thoughts  that  she 
has  brought  with  her  into  this  silent  garden,  where  the  last 
remnants  of  the  autumn  flowers  are  lying  dead  or  dying. 
The  tears  are  still  wet  upon  her  cheeks,  but  though  unhap- 
piness  has  made  its  prey  of  her,  still  her  spirit  is  uncaught, 
and  wanders  away  into  eager  imaginings  and  fond  fancies, 
and  longings  for  the  relief  of  the  tender  friend  who  has  been 
not  only  uncle  but  father  to  her  for  so  many  years. 

And  all  those  little,  dear,  pretty  children  too.  And  poor 
Jimmy,  whose  very  soul  is  set  on  being  a  soldier  as  his 
father  is.  Are  all  his  young  hopes  to  be  dashed  ? 

Alas !  What  hope  is  there  for  any  one  in  this  cold  world  ? 
For  her — what  hope  ? 

Just  now  it  seems  to  her  as  though  to  live  is  only  to  be 
unhappy.  Every  one  seems  to  have  forsaken  her.  Stamer 
is  in  Ireland  still,  and  even  if  here,  of  what  avail  would  he 
be  ?  He  does  not  love  her. 

And  Marian — she  too  is  still  away  travelling,  where  or 
with  whom  Evelyn  scarcely  cares  to  inquire.  Indeed,  the 
very  thought  of  this  old  friend  has  of  late  become  a  torture 
to  her.  Gladly  would  she  have  blotted  her  from  her 
memory,  but  memory,  that  treacherous  thing,  compels  us 
often  to  bear  in  mind  that  which  we  would  not,  and  lets  us 
throw  away  that  which  we  would  eagerly  retain.  That 
Marian  is  away,  and  not  likely  to  return  for  another  week 
or  so,  has  been  a  positive  relief  to  Evelyn.  Yet  to  dwell 
upon  this  change  injher  affection — to  analyse  it — would  be 
a  torture  even  keener  than  that  other. 

But  now  her  mind,  sitting  on  a  bench  in  this  silent  gar- 
den, surrounded  with  all  the  dead  things  that  implacable 
Nature  has  killed,  leaves  behind  it  love  of  the  more  material 
kind,  and  clings  to  that  affection  that  is  pure  and  unselfish. 

How  to  help 'her  uncle  !  How  to  get  him  out  of  this  ter- 
rible trouble  that  has  assailed  not  only  him  but  his  wife  and 
children.  Evelyn's  nature,  though  essentially  tender,  is  not 
without  the  practical  tendency  that  all  strong  natures  must 


A  LIFE'S  EfiMORSE/  179 

possess.  It  is  not  necessary  that  you  must  be  hard-hearted 
because  you  have  an  ear  and  an  eye  open  to  the  best  ways 
of  assuaging  the  evils  of  life.  Many  of  the  so-called  practi- 
cal ones  of  the  earth  are,  when  called  upon  for  sympathy 
for  the  simplest  cases,  proved  to  be  the  tenderest  souls  of 
all — and  the  most  helpful,  because  they  can  see  their  way 
to  action  of  a  useful  kind. 

Evelyn,  sitting  on  her  garden  bench,  tries  hard  to  fight  a 
way  out  of  her  difficulties.  Can  nobody  help  the  colonel  ? 
Oh  !  that  she  could — she,  who  has  been  but  a  burden  to  him 
for  all  these  years  1  Can  she  do  nothing  ? 

Like  a  lightning  flash  the  face  of  Crawford  rises  before 
her.  That  kind  man  !  If  he — if  she  were  to  tell  him 

A  sense  of  faintness  overpowers  her.  She  clings  to  the 
iron  arm  of  the  garden  seat,  and  the  chill  of  it  sends  back 
strength  into  her  body.  No.  It  would  be  impossible. 
From  him,  of  all  people,  after  what  had  passed  between 
them,  it  would  be  out  of  the  question  to  accept  a  favour— 
unless — unless 

But  the  colonel.    The  children— Kitty . 

She  has  fallen  back  against  the  arm  of  the  seat.  A  chill 
has  broken  out  upon  her  brow.  Her  little  hands  have 
folded  with  a  tight  clench  upon  her  gown.  A  breath  that 
is  only  a  long,  long  sob  escapes  her. 

As  the  familiar  click  of  the  garden  gate— the  click  that 
tells  her  somebody  is  coming — reaches  her  ears,  she 
straightens  herself,  passes  her  fingers  hurriedly  across  her 
smarting  eyes,  and  turns  to  see  Mr.  Crawford  looking 
anxiously  down  upon  her. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

"You?"  says  she,  trying  to  smile  and  holding  out  Tier  hand 
to  him.  Crawford,  taking  her  hand,  retains  it  half  uncon- 
sciously, and  forgetting  to  return  her  greeting  still  gazes 
earnestly  at  her.  She  is  evidently  in  sore  distress.  Her 
whole  face  is  full  of  it.  Her  lips,  in  spite  of  her  brave 
effort  to  appear  as  usual,  are  trembling,  they  have  even 
taken  a  little  mournful  downward  droop ;  sad  bistre  shades 
lie  under  her  sweet  eyes. 

*'  You  are  in  trouble,"  says  he  at  last 

*a — 9 


ttt  A  LITE'S  EBMORSK. 

"  Why,  we  must  all  know  trouble  sometimes,"  says  she 
v,'!th  a  gaiety  that  is  very  melancholy  indeed.  "Are  you  so 
altogether  exempt  from  it,  that  you  must  wonder  to  see  me 
sometimes  sad?" 

"  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  sad,"  says  he.  "  And  that's 
the  truth.  To  see  you  as  you  are  now  is  pain  and  grief  to 
me.  Will  you " 

"  No,  no — I  won't,"  cries  she  with  a  little  choking  laugh. 
"  Come.  Forget  my  worries,  and  tell  me  why  you  are  pay- 
ing iwe  so  early  a  visit  to-day." 

"  Not  too  early.  You  are  unhappy,  and  surely  I  can  do 
something  to  help  you.  You  accepted  me  as  your  friend, 
Evelyn.  Prove  that  you  were  sincere  when  you  offered  me 
that  kindly  title.  Let  me  do  some  small  thing  for  you." 

"You  mustn't  press  me  about  this  matter,"  says  she 
earnestly.  "  I  am  bound  not  to  speak  of  it.  If  it  were 
entirely  my  own  affair,  I  would  show  you  at  once  how  I 
regard  you — but  the  colonel- " 

"  Oh,  if  it  is  the  colonel,"  says  he  quickly,  "  I  think  I 
know  something.  He  is  in  a  certain  difficulty — an  easy 
one  to  manage,  I  should  say,  and  you  are  troubled  by  it. 
Come,  tell  me  everything,  Evelyn.  You  see  I  know  the 
best  part  of  it — you  will  be  breaking  no  faith  with  your 
uncle  if  you  enlighten  me  a  little  as  to  -the  particulars  of 
this  matter.  The  colonel  is  not  a  man  of  business;  I  am. 
Come,  speak  to  me." 

He  is  so  kind,  so  earnest,  so  reliable,  that  Evelyn,  after  a 
few  moments'  questioning  of  herself  as  to  what  she  ought 
to  do,  tells  him  all  the  unhappy  story  of  her  uncle's  trust 
betrayed,  and  the  sad  predicament  into  which  that  trust 
has  led  him. 

"  Pouf !  if  that  is  all,"  says  Mr.  Crawford,  when  he  has 
heard  her  to  the  end  ;  "  why  it  can  be  arranged  as  simply  as 
possible.  The  colonel,  as  it  seems  to  me,  owes  some  bank 
people  two  thousand  pounds  ;  they  are  not  content  to  wait 
until  such  time  as  he  shall  be  able  to  pay  them.  The  thing, 
then,  is  to  find  somebody  who  can  pay  the  bank  people,  and 
wait  in  his  turn  for  payment  Do  you  see  ?  " 

"Oh!  that  is  simple  enough,"  says  Evelyn,  sighing. 
"The  thing  is,  to  find  the  agreeable  person  who  is  willing  to 
undertake  the  colonel's  debt." 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear  child.  Any  one  would  do  it.  Here 
am  I,  for  example.  /'//  do  it,"  says  Mr.  Crawford,  with  an 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  t&j 

enthusiasm,  and  a  smile  of  very  superior  knowledge,  meant 
to  convince  her  of  the  absurdity  of  the  doubt  she  has  just 
suggested. 

He  had  meant  to  be  very  clever.  He  has  only  succeeded^ 
however,  in  making  Miss  D'Arcy  give  way  to  a  passional* 
fit  of  crying.  She  cries,  indeed,  as  if  her  heart  were  breaking 
. — as  perhaps  it  is. 

"  Oh  !  do  you  think  I  don't  understand — that  I  don't  see? 
Do  you  think  I  am  a  fool  f"  sobs  she,  pushing,  him  away 
from  her  when  he  attempts  to  comfort  her  in  the  nervous, 
uncertain  way  that  his  present  frame  of  mind  will  alone  allow 
him.  He  is,  indeed,  frightened  out  of  his  wits.  "  No,  no ; 
it  is  out  of  the  question.  Neither  you  nor  any  one  can  help 
us." 

"  I  don't  know  about  the  any  one  else,  but  /can,"  persists 
he  firmly.  "  Be  reasonable,  Evelyn.  Here  am  I,  with 
more  money  than  I  know  what  to  do  with,  and  you  would 
forbid  me  to  lend  a  paltry  sum  to  your  uncle,  a  sum  that 
would  relieve  him  at  once  of  all  anxieties.  Forgive  me,  if 
you  can,  for  saying  it — but  surely  you  are  a  trifle  selfish  ?" 

"Lend — to  lend  two  thousand  pounds  to  the  colonel! 
You  know  that  the  poor  darling  never  could  repay  you," 
says  she  indignantly.  "Oh  !  Mr.  Crawford  " — with  a  sudden 
revulsion  of  feeling — "  I'm  horrid  to  you,  I  know  I  am,  but 
indeed  the  colonel  would  not  borrow  of  any  man." 

"  Then  let  me  give  it  to  you,  and  do  you  give  it  to  him," 
says  Crawford  gently.  "  You  spoke  of  friendship  a  moment 
since.  Make  it  a  real  thing.  Good  heavens  !  you  would  take 
a  fan,  a  perishable  bunch  of  flowers,  from  me,  why  not,  then, 
something  that  will  make  a  being  whom  you  love  happy?" 

He  is  still  speaking,  still  pleading  with  her  to  let  him  help 
her,  without  one  single  thought  or  hope  of  reward  in  any 
shape  ;  but  her  mind  has  slipped  away  from  his  and  started 
on  a  journey  of  its  own. 

To  help — to  help  her  uncle.  To  help  the  colonel,  who 
has  been  the  best,  the  dearest  friend  to  her  that  Heaven 
could  send  to  any  one.  Oh,  what  an  inducement  is  here  I 
Again  she  hears  the  click  of  the  garden  gate,  and  now  she 
tells  herself  that,  as  it  opened,  it  was  to  admit  Fate — her 
fate — who  came  marching  down  upon  her  pauseless,  re- 
lentless, 

If — if  she  were  to  accept  this  money,  she  must  accept  its 
giver  too.  Not  only  a?  a  friend,  but  as  a  husband.  Thit 


182  A  LIFE'S 

is  the  one  and  only  way  in  which  the  colonel  could  repay 
the  loan  of  this  two  thousand  pounds. 

Two  thousand  pounds  !  She  laughs  to  herself  inwardly— 
a  cruel  laugh — as  she  assets  herself  at  just  so  much.  Surely 
a  little  sum  to  receive  as  value  for  all  one's  young  sweet  life. 

She  grows  a  little  faint,  and  white,  and  cold.  A  sacrifice 
they  would  call  it,  but  a  small  one,  surely,  when  counted 
against  the  care  and  love  of  all  these  years ;  and  the  colonel 
had  been  a  father  to  her,  the  gentlest,  the  tenderest,  whilst 
Kitty — oh,  there  were  few  like  Kitty.  And  now  she  was 
sitting  in  there,  not  even  daring  to  cry  or  give  her  heart 
relief  in  any  way,  so  misei^ble  was  she  about  the  poor  colonel. 

Oh,  no  !  it  is  not  so  great  a  sacrifice,  after  all.  Of  what 
use  is  her  life,  to  what  direction  does  it  incline?  It  is 
rudderless,  valueless,  drifting  here  and  there,  and  with  no 
settled  object  to  guide  it  safely  into  any  port. 

If  Eaton  could  have  loved  her !  At  this  supreme  moment 
of  her  existence  she  speaks  plainly  to  herself,  and  lets  the 
little  ordinary  defences  with  which  women  love  to  guard 
and  clothe  themselves,  and  with  which  they  pretend  to  hide 
themselves  from  themselves,  slip  from  her.  Her  heart  and 
she  stand  naked,  face  to  face ;  they  have  flung  aside  all  dis- 
guises, and  look  back  at  each  other  with  a  sad  and  terrible 
regard. 

No.  He  does  not  love  her.  He  would  never  have  gone 
away  without  telling  her  so — if  such  a  blessed  secret  had 
lain  within  his  breast.  Then,  when  she  was  ill  and  in  great 
pain,  and  very  sad  at  heart.  No,  he  went ;  he  left  no  gentle 
word  behind  him,  He  had  left  only  usfriendly  looks  and 
words. 

And  Marian  had  gone  too.  The  poor  child — poor 
Evelyn — had  shrunk  from  the  farewell  words  given  to  her. 
But  Marian  had  seen  nothing  of  it,  and  had  kissed  her 
warmly  with  a  sort  of  nervous,  prophetic  feeling  as  they 
parted.  Yet  it  was  with  a  passionate  sense  of  relief  that  Evelyn 
had  seen  her  best  friend  go,  and  the  keenest  sense  of 
happiness  she  had  yet  known  lay  in  the  thought  that  she 
would  not  be  back  again  for  two  long  months — short 
months,  as  it  seemed  to  Evelyn. 

Then,  with  a  life  so  spoiled,  where  lies  the  sacrifice  ?  Mr. 
Crawford — kind,  gentle,  generous — loves  her.  Other  people 
have  not  loved  her !  The  very  bitterness  in  this  last  thought 
serves  to  sustain  her. 


A  LIFE'S  BEMORSB.  183 

Mr.  Crawford  is  still  talking,  still  trying  to  persuade  her  to 
accept  his  assistance  for  her  uncle.  It  takes  very  long  to 
write  what  takes  but  a  moment  or  two  to  think.  Evelyn, 
with  her  mind  made  up,  pauses  in  her  desire  to  bring  matters 
to  a  conclusion,  and  with  a  little  desperate  gesture  of  the 
right  hand,  looks  out  towards  the  south,  where  now  the  sun 
is  struggling  through  the  clouds  and  sending  a  chilly  ray  or 
two  upon  the  dull  and  dismal  earth.  She  feels  her  cheeks  are 
blanched,  her  tongue  lifeless.  If  she  must  speak,  must  give 
up  her  life,  at  least  he  need  not  know  how  begrudgingly  is 
the  gift  bestowed. 

If  he  did  know,  so  honest  and  loyal  is  he,  that  probably 
he  would  refuse  it,  and  then  the  colonel  would  be  ruined 
indeed — and  Kitty  and  Jimmy,  and  the  children  ! 

She  is  conscious  suddenly  that  Crawford  has  ceased 
speaking,  and  that  he  is  looking  at  her. 

"  You  are  silent,"  says  he. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,"  says  the  girl  in  a  low  tone.  Her 
eyes  are  fastened  on  the  turf  beneath  her  feet,  her  very  lips 
are  white.  "  May  I  tell  you  of  my  thoughts  ?  " 

**  You  know  you  can  tell  me  anything,"  says  he  gravely. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

"You  remember,"  says  she  steadily,  but  with  extreme  ner- 
vousness, "  the  day  when  you  came  to  see  me  after  you 
saved  me  from  falling  down  that  precipice  ?" 

"I  remember." 

"  Do  you  remember,  too,  what  you  said  to  me  I'pon  that 

day?  If — if  you  don't "  a  lovely  shamed  red  covering 

all  her  features. 

"I  do,"  says  Crawford  with  sudden  and  eager  emphasis. 
**Ho\v  could  you  believe  I  might  forget?  ': 

"Well" — turning  aside  her  face,  and  struggling  for  a 
moment  for  that  calm  that  is  so  hard  to  make  one's  own 
when  one  most  desires  it — "  I  have  changed  my  mind  about 
my  answer  to  you  that  day,  if— if  you  have  not  changed 
yours." 

"  I  should  have  to  be  born  again  before  I  could  change 
dine,"  says  Mr.  Crawford.  "  But " 

'*  Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  says  the  poor  chiW  wtgerly.    "  Yo« 


|84     .  JL  LIFE'S 

want  to  know  why  I  say  one  thing  to-day  and  another  thing 
yesterday.  It  is  your  goodness  to  the  colonel  that  has 
altered  me.  If  you  will  help  him — and  if  you  will  take  my 

v/orthless  life,  in  exchange  for  that  help — •! " 

"  Enough,  Evelyn,"  says  he,  putting  up  his  hand.  "  I 
don't  think,  perhaps,  that  you  quite  understand  me.  It  is 
your  happiness  I  desire,  not  your  misery.  You  think  to 
buy  peace  of  mind  for  your  uncle  by  the  giving  up  of  all 
your  own.  And  you  have  done  me  the  wrong  to  believe 
that  I  am  the  man  to  help  you.  No  1 "  He  smiles  at  her 
very  kindly,  and  taking  one  of  her  little  cold  hands  presses 
it  reassuringly.  "  We  shall  arrange  for  your  uncle  on  better 
terms  than  that,"  says  he,  with  quite  an  assumption  of 
cheerfulness. 

"  But  listen  to  me.  Why — why  is  it  that  you  refuse  me? 
Is  it  that  you  have  changed  ?  "  cries  she,  tears  rushing  to 
her  lovely  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Evelyn  !  "  says  he. 

"  Well,  hear  me  then.  You  say  you  love  me.  If  you  do, 
you  are  the  only  man  on  earth  except  the  colonel  who  cares 
at  all  for  me ;  and  I  thought— — " 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that,  Evelyn  ?  "  very  gravely  now,  and 
with  some  agitation. 

"  Oh,  so  sure  !  "  says  she.  There  is  a  suggestion  of  de- 
spair in  her  voice  as  she  says  this  that  should  have  warned 
him,  but  by  an  unlucky  chance  he  does  not  notice  it. 

"Then — then  if  I  might  indeed  dare  to  hope "  he 

pauses.  "  If  there  is  no  other  before  me  I  will  risk  it,"  says 
he,  more  confidently  now.  "Though  I  would  have  you 
understand  that  I  know  how  it  is  between  us.  You  would 

help  your  uncle.     But,  Evelyn,  if  there  is  no  one  else " 

"  There  is  no  one,"  says  she  calmly.  "  No  one  loves  me 
but  you — if  indeed  you  do." 

"  Can  you  have  a  doubt  ?"  says  he  reproachfully.  He 
lifts  her  hand  and  presses  it  to  his  lips.  "What  I  only 
meant  to  convey  was,  that,  but  for  this  trouble  of  your 
uncle's  I  understand  fully  I  should  not  be  so  blessed  as  I 
now  count  myself.  I  prefer  that  we  should  both  fully 

understand  that.     In  time — in  time "     He  breaks  oft* 

abruptly.  All  in  one  moment,  as  it  were,  he  has  grown 
young — handsome.  The  girl,  looking  at  him,  tells  herscll 
that  she  has  never  known  how  good  to  look  at  he  is,  until 
just  now*  Happiness  is  the  one  great  beautifier.  If  Mous* 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE;       ,  &£ 

fllmmell  or  "his  confrlres  could  but  catch  that  fleeting  ecstasy 
And  bottle  it,  what  prodigious  fortunes  would  be  theirs  I 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,"  says  he,  patting  her  hand 
softly — the  little  cold  hand  that  lies  so  listlessly  in  his; 
"  that  as  yet  you  do  not  love  me,  but  at  least  you  love  no 
one  else." 

**  You  are  right — you  are  right,"  says  she  hastily.  "  I  do 
not  love  you  quite  in  that  way,  but " 

"  It  is  enough ;  I  will  trust  for  the  rest.  Time  is  a  great 
tonic."  Alas  I  had  he  found  it  so  ?  "  And  now  we  start 
with  no  mistakes  between  us.  I  am  fully  reconciled  to  the 
thought  that  but  for  the  misfortunes  of  the  colonel,  which," 
with  a  little  smile,  "  I  scarcely  deplore,  you  would  not  have 
said  to  me  the  words  you  did  to-day." 

"That  is  true,"  says  she  simply;  "yet  I  would  say 
something  more  to  you,  as,"  with  a  gentle  glance,  "confes- 
sion seems  to  be  the  order  of  the  day.  I  do  not  love  you, 
truly,  as  you  love  me ;  but  still  I  bear  you  some  kind  of 
love.  Believe  that.  Believe,  too,"  gazing  at  him  with 
earnest  eyes,  "that  I  feel  no  shrinking  from  my  marriage 
with  you,  no  desire  to  draw  back  from  it  Hear  me  yet  a 
moment,"  says  she,  putting  up  her  hand  to  check  him  as 
she  sees  him  about  to  interrupt  her.  "I  fear  you  may 
imagine  that  because  of  the  colonel's  trouble  I  am  accepting 
you ;  but  it  is  not  wholly  so.  If  I  hated  you  I  would  not 
marry  you,  even  to  save  the  colonel." 

"  I  know  that.  Oh,  Evelyn !  I  wonder  if  you-  know  how 
sweet  a  nature  is  yours." 

"  Ah,  you  love  me.  You  are  prejudiced,"  says  she,  with 
a  faint  smile.  "Others,  who  do  not  love  me,  do  not  find 
me  so  faultless.  And  you,  too,"  sighing  quickly,  "  will  find 
me  out  in  time." 

"  I  shall,"  says  he  confidently.  "  I  shall  find  you  even 
dearer  than  I  now  hold  you.  And,  oh,  how  much  that 
means.  Well,  is  that  all  you  have  to  tell  me  ?  " 

"  All  I  think." 

"  Something  more,  surely.  I  am  curious  to  know  how  I 
inspired  in  you  the  friendship  you  feel  for  me.  I  do  not 
doubt  it,  you  see." 

"  You  need  not.  Ever  since  that  first  day  we  met — you 
iemember  it  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  I  could  forget  ?  " 

"'Ever  since  that  day,  then,  I  have  felt  an  attraction 


l<6  4  KFE'S  REMORSE. 

towards  you  ;  a  strange  desire  to  be  with  you,  to  &now  you 
well — a  desire  as  unaccountable  as  strange.  I  am  not 
given  to  sudden  friendship,"  says  she  slowly  j  "  1  am  un- 
girlish  in  that.  But  you,  you  seemed  to  draw  me  te  you. 
I  felt  you  were  my  friend — a  real  friend.  It  was  " — dreamily 
— "as  though  I  had  known  you  before  somewhere — as 
if,  in  some  past  day,  you  had  been  mixed  up  with  me  or 
mine  in  some  close  way ;  and  as  if  in  that  vague  past  you 

had .     I  don't  know,"  breaking  off  with  a  little  shake  of 

her  head.  "  It  is  all  a  mere  fancy,  of  course — but  it  really 
has  seemed  to  me  as  if  you  were  in  some  way  bound  to 
me,  as  if  were  I  tc  ask  you  to  do  anything  for  me,  you  would 
certainly  not  refuse  to  do  it." 

"  As  if  I  owed  you  something,"  suggests  he  with  a  touch 
of  tender  amusement. 

"  Well,  yes  —  that  is  it  really,"  says  she  laughing, 
"Absurd,  wasn't  it?" 

"  Far  from  it.  It  was  prophetic  rather.  Do  you  thinlr 
I  owe  you  nothing  now,  when  you  have  promised  to  giv« 
your  whole  dear  life  into  my  keeping  ?  " 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,"  says  she,  "  I  am  the  gainer,  and  not 
you.  What  joy  you  can  give  to  those  I  love  ! " 

"  Don't  let  us  think  of  it  in  that  way,"  says  he  hastily.  "  I 
am  selfish  if  you  will,  but  give  a  little  thought  to  me.  You 
give  me  joy  too.  And  surely  that  first  dream  of  yours 
pointed  this  way." 

"Perhaps  so,"  faintly.  "At  all  events,"  with  a  sudden 
memory  that  gives  her  courage,  "  I  know,  that  as  I  thought 
of  you,  I  always  believed  and  trusted  in  you." 

She  pauses.  There  is  something  in  the  innocent  ex- 
altation of  her  manner  that  forbids  expressed  emotion. 
Crawford  contents  himself  with  a  loving  glance  at  her. 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  is  a  dream,"  says  she.  "  No  more.  But  I 
can  hardly  divest  myself  of  the  belief  that  sometime  you 
had  an  interest  for  me,  even  before  we  met." 

"  A  happy  belief  for  me,"  says  he  radiantly.  "  And  now 
you  have  asked  me  to  accept  a  belief  of  yours,  I,  in  rny 
turn,  will  ask  you  to  believe  in  a  certain  statement  of  mine. 
It  is  a  rather  vain  one,  I  suppose,  but — I  do  not  want  you, 
to  regard  me  as  quite  an  ancient.  I  know  appearances  are 
against  me.  But  I  am  not  as  old  as  I  look." 

Evelyn  turns  her  eyes  on  him. 

^  Believe  that,  try  to  believe  it,"  says  he  eagerly.   "  Those 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  187 

ten  years  in  the  East  told  upon  me  terribly."  He  pauses. 
Was  it  the  ten  years  of  the  Eastern  climate  that  had 
changed  his  hair  from  black  to  grey,  or  was  it  the  insatiable 
remorse,  that  night  and  day  travelled  with  him  that  had 
done  it  ? 

"I  have  so  often  heard  about  that,"  says  she.  "The 
change  of  climate,  for  one  thing ;  and  the  hot  sun  out  there, 
and " 

"  Yes.    That,  and  However,  it  told  upon  me,"  says 

he  abruptly. 

"I  think  you  scarcely  do  yourself  justice,"  says  she. 
"  Certainly,"  sweetly,  "  you  do  not  flatter  yourself  \  Why 
should  you  imagine  that  you  look  like  an  old  man  ?  "  In 
truth,  he  looks  like  anything  but  that  now,  with  this  fresh 
flush  of  happiness  on  cheek  and  brow. 

"  Why  need  I,"  says  he,  laughing  gaily,  "  when  you  are 
here  to  do  the  flattering  for  me.  Yes,  I  am  old  when 
compared  with  you.  Still,  not  old  enough  to  be  your  grand- 
father." 

"  Or  my  father,  either,"  says  she  with  a  suspicion  of  his 
gaiety.  Then,  as  the  word  passes  her  lips,  she  changes ;  the 
smile  dies  ;  her  colour  fades.  "  My  father,"  says  she  slowly, 
reluctantly.  "  Oh  !  he  was  a  very,  very  old  man." 

"  An  old  man  ! "  repeats  Crawford  mechanically.  What 
tragic  words;  what  horrible  memories  they  evoke.  Her 
evident  grief  is  unseen  by  him,  the  very  hour,  the  place  is 
forgotten.  The  heavenly  sweetness  of  this  moment  spent 
with  her,  and  adorned  by  her  presence,  dies  from  him.  All 
in  one  second  is  a  blank.  All  save  the  cruel  realities  of  the 
awful  past. 

Beneath  his  feet,  as  he  stares  downwards,  with  eyes  con- 
vulsed and  bloodshot,  the  green  fresh  grass  disappears  and 
resolves  itself  into  an  old  and  faded  carpet.  It  begins  to 
spread  itself  over  a  room — a  small  room,  and  there — there  J 
where  the  rhododendron  should  be,  a  bookcase  upraises  it- 
self. And  that  rose  bush  over  there.  Is  it  a  rose  bush,  or 
an  escritoire  ?  Oh,  Heaven  !  Again — again  f 

What  is  this  thing  that  lies  upon  the'carpet  ?  This  silent, 
outstretched  motionless  thing.  An  old  man  !  A  "  very,  very 
old  man,"  said  she.  Oh,  how  horrible  it  is !  Why  can't  he 
stir  ?  A  hand,  a  foot.  Great  and  kind  God  !  What  an 
uplifting  of  the  whole  mind  of  one  poor  human  creature 
might  not  be  achieved  by  such  a  miracle. 


C88  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

<      < 

Silent !  Motionless !  No  sound !  An  old  man  ?  And 
pale,  pale,  and  with  the  mouth  a  little  twisted  so,  and— — 

What  is  this  ? 

This  shiny,  creeping  thread  that  steals  down  the  dull 
white  cheek.  What  is  it  ?  Blood  !  Blood  ! 

"  You  are  thinking  of  something  that  makes  you  sad," 
says  Evelyn,  laying  her  hand  suddenly  in  his  and  by  the 
sweet  magic  of  her  touch  breaking  the  dire  enchantment 
that  is  crushing  him.  "  Do  not  be  sad  to-day.  To-day,  that 
has  given  me  to  you.*' 

There  is  entreaty  in  her  tone,  but  nothing  of  the  sweet 
shyness  that  belongs  to  happy  lovers.  If  he  had  not  been  so 
entirely  wrapped  up  in  the  terrible  memories  that  belong  to 
him,  he  might  have  noticed  that  she  betrays  no  curiosity  as 
to  his  secret  musings,  no  desire  to  learn  the  trouble  that  lies 
so  heavily  upon  his  heart. 

She  feels  a  little  increase  of  the  melancholy  that  has 
made  its  own  of  her  for  many  weeks  past.  She  must  be 

always  sad,  but  he .  Oh,  surely,  if  this  sacrifice  has  to  be 

made,  one  at  least  might  be  allowed  to  rejoice  in  it. 

"Speak  to  me,"  says  she  softly,  closing  her  fingers  around 
his. 

"I  was  dreaming,"  says  he,  throwing  up  his  head,  as  if 
gasping  for  breath,  and  drawing  in  the  chill  wintry  air  in  one 
deep  sigh. 

"  A  bad  dream  ?  "  says  she  kindly  but  indifferently. 

"  We  all  have  had  dreams  sometimes,"  says  he  with  an 
effort. 

"  And  yours  ?  "  She  is  indifferent  still,  but  it  seems 
impossible  not  to  put  some  kind  of  question  to  him. 

"  What  should  it  be  ?  "  says  he  with  an  attempt  at  light' 
ness. 

"Ah !  That's  what  I  ask,"  returns  she,  a  slight  curiosity 
moving  her  now  as  she  catches  his  effort  at  evasion. 

"  Why — If  all  this  happy  day  were  to  fade  away,  and  I 
found  you  had  repented  yourself  and  cast  me  from  you 
into  my  former  desolation.  Would  not  that  be  a  bad 
dream  ?  " 

He  curses  himself  inwardly  as  he  thus  lies  to  her. 

"  Was  that  yours  ?  "  says  she. 

He  makes  a  little  movement  of  acquiescence — words  arc 
beyond  him. 

"  I  shall  not  do  that,"  says  she  simply.     "  I  have  givei* 


A  MFE'S  REMOKI3B.  189 

you  my  word ;  it  is  as  good  as  my  bond.  Do  not  make 
yourself  sad  with  such  a  thought  as  that." 

"  Evelyn  t "  says  he.  Anguish  and  despair  cry  aloud 
and  enter  into  that  piteous,  vague  appeal  to  her.  Oh  !  was 
ever  mortal  in  such  sore  straits  as  he  ?  A  murderer — with- 
out intent — without  punishment.  Without  the  courage  to 
avow  the  crime,  and  suffer  for  it !  Oh  !  if  atonement  might 
be  made  without  the  avowal. 

He  clings  to  the  hand  she  has  given  him,  as  though  in 
her  nearness,  her  purity,  lies  his  one  chance  of  escape  from 
the  demon  that  night  and  day  pursues  him  :  that  most 
relentless  of  all  devils — Memory. 

"You  pay  me  a  poor  compliment,"  says  she  smiling 
gently.  "  Be  sad  to-morrow  if  you  will,  but  not  to-day.  I 
have  been  thinking  over  it  all,  but  my  meditations,"  with  a 
pretty  reproach,  "have  not  disheartened  me.  I  am  glad 
that  you  spoke  so  openly  :  that  you  understand  so  entirely 
how  it  is ;  that  there  are  no  secrets  between  us." 

"  No.  No  secrets.  None,"  says  he  in  a  stunned  sort  of 
way. 

"That  is  a  comfort,"  says  she  earnestly.  "  I  should  be 
a  bad  hand  at  pretending.  But  now  you  will  not  expect  too 
much  from  me.  And  you  cannot  know,"  sweetly,  "how 
happy  you  have  made  me.  What  a  weight  you  have  taken  oS 
my  shoulders  !  The  colonel——  "  She  starts.  "  Oh  I "  cries 

she,  "  how  selfish  I  have  been "  (selfish,  poor  child !) 

"  I  had  forgotten  the  colonel !  And  he  is  so  miserable  all 
this  time — whilst  I  have  had  it  in  my  power  to  cheer  him, 
yet  forgot  it.  It  seems  to  me  as  though  he  must  know 
because  I  did.  May  I  go  to  him  and  tell  him  everything, 
or  will  you  ?  " 

"I  will  go,"  says  Crawford  rising;  "I  can  explain  mor£ 
fully.  Can  I  tell  him,  Evelyn,  that  you  are  doing  this  thing 
of  your  own  accord^  That  you  feel  no  regret  ?  " 

"  None,"  decisively.  "  Put  faith  in  me.  You  will  go  then  ? 
Thank  you." 

"  I  shall  see  you  again  ?  " 

"  Not  to-day,"  says  she  quietly.  <!  To-morrow,  if  you  will. 
I  shall  have  a  good  deal  to  say  to  Kitty,  and— a  good  deal 
to  say  to  myself." 

"  Until  to-morrow,  then,"  says  he,  holding  out  his  hand. 
He  hesitates  perceptibly ;  then  stooping  presses  his  lips 
long  and  fervently  to  her  brow. 


190  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

The  tear1;  have  rushed  into  her  eyes. 
"  Good-bye,"  says  she  making  him  a  little  parting  gesture 
of  adieu. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

VESTERDAY!    How  long  ago  was  yesterday?     A  year? 
Twenty-four  hours  ?     A  lifetime  ? 

A  lifetime  surely.  The  twenty-four  hours'  theory  is  absurd. 

Just  now,  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  it  all  seems  like  a 
dream  to  Evelyn.  Yet  she  has  gone  through  her  second 
hiterview  with  her with  Mr.  Crawford.  With  a  deter- 
mination worthy  of  a  Spartan,  she  has  from  the  very  first 
spoken  of  and  compelled  herself  to  think  of  Mr.  Crawford 
as  her  future  husband.  But  even  the  Spartan  boy  must 
have  had  his  weak  moments  like  tae  poorest  of  us,  and  this 
is  one  of  Evelyn's. 

Yet  regret  for  her  promise  to  him  is  hardly  her  strongest 
feeling.  Regret  rather  for  the  love  that  could  have  been 
given  to  another,  and  is  now  lying  so  worthlesn'y  upon  her 
hands,  is  eating  her  heart  away.  And  above  and  beyond  all, 
this  new  responsibility — this  knowledge  that  she  has  irre- 
vocably broken  with  the  old  life,  and  merged  herself  in 
another,  is  holding  every  thought  in  thrall. 

There  had  been  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  with  Kitty. 

The  colonel,  good  man,  who  had  not  dreamed  of  any  one 
as  a  lover  for  the  little  girl,  whom  he  still  regarded  as  a 
child,  was  first  amazed,  then  disconcerted,  then  amazed 
again,  and  finally  pleased  by  Crawford's  proposal.  If  for 
one  moment  he  had  known  or  thought  that  Evelyn  had 
accepted  Crawford  to  save  him  from  his  difficulties — it 
would  be  doing  him  but  the  barest  justice  to  say  that  he 
would  have  scorned  Crawford's  advances,  and  compelled 
Evelyn  to  break  off,  what  would  have  appeared  to  his  kindly 
-soul,  a  most  unholy  alliance.  But  that  Evelyn's  heart  had 
been  attracted  by  another  was  unknown  to  the  colonel,  and 
if  surprised  that  she  should  accept  a  man  as  old  as  Craw- 
ford, he  saw  no  reason  for  forbidding  the  banns. 

Feeling  still  puzzled,  he  had  argued  the  matter  out  with 
her,  and  she  had  been  clever  enough  to  mystify  him  com' 
pletely.  Any  one  could  have  mystified  the  colonel — wb/ 
took  everybody's  word  as  gospel. 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  if  i 

jfcut  Kitty  had  been  harder  to  deal  with.  There  had  been, 
as  I  said,  a  short  time  with  her,  that  had  nearly  undoni 
Evelyn. 

"  Tell  me  the  truth,  Evelyn,"  said  she,  coming  into  the 
girl's  bedroom  and  closing  the  door  behind  her  with  an  air 
that  half  frightened  Evelyn.  "  Do  not  prevaricate  with  me. 
Do  you  honestly  wish  to  marry  Mr.  Crawford — or  is  it  for 
us  you  are " 

"  Nonsense,  Kitty  I  °  interrupting  her  hastily — "  I 
am " 

"It  is  not  nonsense,"  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy  with  more 
passion  than  she  has  ever  yet  shown  in  her  genial  life.  "  It 
is  a  sin — a  crime,  if  it  proves  to  be  what  I  think  it  Evelyn 
— do  you  know  that  if  a  woman  loves  one  man  and  de- 
liberately marries  another  she  is  wantonly  destroying  two— 
perhaps  three  lives  ?  " 

"Well?"  says  Evelyn  a  little  stubbornly.  All  this  is 
part  of  it,  she  tells  herself. 

"Well? — well?"  with  angry  impatience.  "Is  that  all 
you  have  to  say  to  me/  ?  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  there  is 
Ho  one  you  prefer  to  Mr.  Crawford  ?  To  that  man  who  is 
old  enough  to  be " 

"  Do  you  know,  Kitty,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy,  who  has 
grown  deadly  pale,  "  that  perhaps  you  do  not  altogether 
Understand  what  you  are  doing  ?  1  am  going  to  marry  Mr. 
Crawford  quite  of  my  own  free  will,  and " 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  says  Kitty,  who  has  now  got  beyond 
all  control 
.     "It  is  true,  for  all  that." 

"  Evelyn !  don't  speak  to  me  like  that !  What  has  hap- 
pened to  you — to  the  little  pretty  child  I  took  and  loved  as 
my  own  some  years  ago  ?  Am  I  not  a  mother  to  you  ? 
Don't  speak  to  me  so  coldly.  Do  you  think  I  have  not 
watched  you  as  you  grew — that  every  secret  of  your  heart 
has  not  been  made  plain  to  me  ?  That  when  Eaton  Stamer 
came  here " 

"  Now  there  !  "  interrupts  Evelyn,  with  a  stamp  of  her 
foot,  "  not  another  word  !  I  won't  bear  it ! "  She  has 
flung  down  the  brush  she  had  been  pretending  to  brush  her 
hair  with,  and  as  it  falls  with  a  noisy  clatter  to  the  ground 
she  advances  on  Mrs.  D'Arcy.  "  Eaton  Stamer  may  have 
come  here,  and  you  may  have  imagined  that  I  thought  as 
you  did,  that  he  came  here  because  he — he—  OfeJ 


193  A  LIFE'S  EEMORSE. 

what  nonsense  it  all  is,"  putting  up  her  hand  to  her  pretty 
head,  as  if  action  is  necessary  to  her.  "  Misconceptions 
of  this  kind  are  the  commonest  things  of  all.  Eaton 
Stamer  is  my  friend — no  more.  I  am  his  friend — no  more, 
I  assure  you.  I  must  entreat  you,  Kitty,  to  be  a  little  less 
romantic  in  your  views  of  me  for  the  future." 

"  You  mean "  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy  slowly. 

"That  Mr.  Crawford  and  I  will  suit  each  other  ad- 
mirably." 

"  You  mean,  rather,  that  I  am  to  be  silent  on  the  subject 
But,  Evelyn,  I  can't  be  that.  Nothing — not  all  the  cold 
and  cruel  things  you  could  say  to  me — would  convince  me 
that  this  marriage  is  for  your  happiness." 

"Then  I  won't  say  them,"  says  Evelyn,  with  a  short 
laugh.  "  And  you,  for  your  part,  don't  say  cruel  things  to 
me.  Once  for  all,  Kitty,"  turning  suddenly  upon  her 
a  white  face  and  eyes  as  dark  as  night,  "take  this  to 
heart.  You  may  believe  it  or  not  as  you  like,  but  I  am 
marrying  Mr.  Crawford  because  I  want  to  marry  him,  and 
if  you  think  that  Eaton  Stamer  is  in  love  with  me,  you 
make  a  great  mistake.  Now,  will  that  do  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  suppose  so,"  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy  miserably. 
She  moves  towards  the  door,  hesitates,  and  finally  coming 
swiftly  back  flings  her  arms  round  the  girl's  slight  tense 
body. 

"  Oh  1  darling  1  darling  1 "  cries  she,  bursting  into  tears. 


CHAPTER    XXXVL 

CRAWFORD,  coming  out  from  the  colonel's  presence  as 
Evelyn's  accepted  suitor,  had  stepped  into  the  chill  path* 
ways  of  the  winter  woods  with  a  heart  on  fire.  The 
colonel  had  not  been  altogether  complimentary,  and  had 
taken  the  matter  of  Crawford's  ability  to  save  him  from  his 
creditors  (who  after  all  were  not  his)  as  a  very  secondary 
consideration  when  compared  with  Evelyn's  well-being. 

Still,  it  was  over;  the  interview  at  an  end,  and  the 
dearest  wish  of  his  heart  completed.  Evelyn  would  marry 
him,  and  there  was  something  about  her  that  compelled 
him  to  believe  that  though  she  was  not  actually  in  love 
with  him,  that  yet  it  was  of  her  own  free  will  that  she  had 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  19$ 

consented  to  be  his.    Surely  no  man  on  earth  was  happier 
than  he. 

Happy! 

Suddenly  the  old  cloud  fell  upon  him.  His  heaven 
departed,  the  barest  possibilities  of  life  were  his — no  more. 
He  could  have  laughed  aloud  at  his  madness  of  a  moment 
since,  when  all  things  seemed  within  his  grasp — when  he 
had  dared  to  dream  of  joy  and  peice  and  love  !  Surely  he 
of  all  men  should  be  the  last  to  /seek  to  win  one  second's 
pleasure  from  life — he  who  had  destroyed  life  !  The  very 
word  had  become  a  terror  to  him,  being  the  key-note  to  all 
his  misery — Life  taken. 

What  was  there  left  him  then,  save  death?  His  heart 
was  full  of  it.  The  very  wintry  air  as  he  walked  along 
through  the  decaying  woods  spoke  of  nothing  else.  The 
dry  dull  rustle  of  the  leaves  beneath  his  feet  sang  an  eternal 
requiem. 

It  was  one  of  his  worst  moments.  The  reaction  after  the 
unexpected  glimpse  of  bliss  the  morning  had  shown  him 
was  all  the  more  severe.  Now  and  again  he  could  forget, 
but  not  for  long ;  his  broken  heart  was  like  the  deep  fissure 
iaa  rock  that  time  had  overgrown  with  ferns  and  trailing 
grasses  and  all  sweet  weeds,  but  that  still  had  its  terrible 
rent  beneath.  Nothing  could  hide  it  completely ;  a  chance 
wind  came  and  blew  aside  the  kindly  creeping  greeneries, 
and  there  it  showed  a  ghastly,  deadly,  fathomless  hole. 

He  went  home,  and  made  his  way  to  his  library,  and 
there,  sinking  into  his  chair,  lets  his  arms  fall  upon  the 
table  and  his  head  fall  on  them,  and  so  rests,  thinking, 
thinking  always,  trying  to  work  this  matter  out.  It  is  an 
old  attitude  with  him.  The  servants,  who  adore  him,  are 
quite  accustomed  to  come  in  and  find  him  so  at  times,  and 
have  now  almost  ceased  to  gossip  about  it  amongst  them- 
selves. 

Can  he  accept  this  happiness,  or  shall  he  renounce  it  ? 
If  she  knew !  Why  then  the  question  would  be  solved 
once  for  all.  But  if  she  never  knew !  Will  he  love  her, 
or  cherish  her  one  whit  the  less,  because  of  this  dire 
secret  that  lies  upon  his  soul  ?  And  she  too ;  there  is 
a  secret  there.  Her  father !  What  was  the  mystery  about 
him  ?,  It  had  been  darkly  hinted  at,  but  never  clearly  told. 
Never  would  be.  Something  discreditable  beyond  question. 
Something  damnatory.  Crime  of  some  sort.  Well,  if  be 

U 


194  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

did  not  seek  to  learn  about  her  father's  past  life,  should  he 
not  cry  quits  with  her,  if  he  refrained  from  telling  her  of 
his? 

But  must  this  curse  follow  him  for  all  time  ?  Oh,  Heaven  ! 
cannot  even  her  sweet  spirit  exorcise  it  ?  Is  there  no  hope 
— no  way  of  escape  ?  Must  that  awful  thing  pursue  him, 
lying  before  his  mental  vision  clearly  for  ever — and  ever  ? 

Suddenly,  as  he  rested  there  with  his  face  hidden,  it 
came  to  him  again. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  curse,  and  put  out  his  hands 
as  though  to  thrust  it  back.  His  lips  grew  livid,  his  eyes 
staring.  Once  again  he  stood  within  that  silent  library, 
and  at  his  feet  the  old  man  lay !  So  still !  so  quiet  ! 
That  clenched  hand  flung  out,  those  dull  eyes  half  show- 
ing, the  nostrils  pinched !  And  again — again,  that  thin 
stream  of  blood  slowly,  slowly  creeping  downwards  to  the 
parted  lips. 

An  awful  groan  breaks  from  the  wretched  dreamer.  He 
presses  his  hands  against  his  glaring  eye-balls,  and  stagger- 
ing back  against  the  bookcase,  leans  there  as  if  exhausted. 
A  cruel  sigh  bursts  from  him,  and  with  it,  words  full  of 
heart-rending  supplication.  Almost  unconsciously  they 
fall  from  his  lips.  Old  words,  and  beautiful,  half-forgotten, 
but  now  welling  up  within  him  in  his  agony : 

"Oh,  hear  Thou  in  heaven,  thy  dwelling-place,  and 
when  Thou  hearest,  forgive  /" 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

Miss  VANDELEUR,  coming  home  specially  early  one  morning, 
feeling  tired  and  rather  overdone  after  her  journey,  gives 
herself  into  the  hands  of  her  maid,  with  a  view  to  going  to 
bed  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  staying  there  until  late  in 
the  afternoon. 

The  dull  cold  light  of  the  wintry  day  is  creeping  into  the 
room  with  animosity  sufficient  to  almost  put  out  the  fire. 
But  nothing  puts  out  a  maid  when  she  has  got  news  to  tell, 
and  presently  Miss  Vandeleur  is  in  full  possession  of  the 
facts  about  Evelyn's  engagement  to  Mr.  Crawford. 

Marian  twists  her  head  out  of  her  maid's  hands. 

"  Is  it  true  ?  "  says  she,  looking  at  Matilda  Jane  with  aa 


*A  'LIFE'S  REMOKSE.  19$ 

much  astonishment  mingled  with  disapprobation  as  even  a 
Matilda  Jane  could  have  desired. 

"  Oh,  yes,  m'.     All  the  world's  'card  of  it." 

"  Then  what  are  you  doing  ? "  says  Miss  Vandeleur 
sharply.  "Put  up  my  hair  again.  I'm  going  out.  I'll 
have  a  bath  and  a  cup  of  tea,  and  tell  George  to  have  the 
carriage  round  in  half  an  hour." 

"  But  after  your  journey,  m',  surely." 

"Hurry,  Matilda,"  says  Miss  Vandeleur,  rather  more 
sharply  still. 

It  seems  to  her  indeed  as  if  no  one  can  hurry  enough. 
A  marriage  such  as  that.  Monstrous  !  It  must  be  put  a 
stop  to  at  once.  And  of  course  quite  easily.  Evelyn  is  a 
perfect  baby,  but  reasonable.  Though  really  after  this 

At  the  D'Arcys,  learning  that  Evelyn  has  just  finished 
breakfast  and  is  now  in  her  own  room,  she  pushes  aside  the 
servant  who  would  have  announced  her,  and  running" 
rapidly  upstairs,  enters  Evelyn's  room  without  a  word  of 
warning,  or  even  the  usual  knock. 

"  What  is  this  thing  I  have  heard,  Evelyn?"  says  she,  going 
quickly  over  to  the  girl,  who  is  standing  before  her  glass, 
brushing  out  her  hair,  through  pure  idleness  as  it  seems,  as 
she  had  brushed  it  before,  only  an  hour  ago.  "It  isn't 
true,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Why  should  you"nope  it  ?  And  how  d'ye  do,  Marian  ?  " 
with  a  little  laugh.  "  You  seem  to  forget  we  have  not  seen 
each  other  for  a  month  or  two." 

"  I  forget  everything,  except  this  extraordinary  news. 
What  am  I  to  understand  by  your  manner  ?  That  it  is  true  ?" 

"  If  you  mean  my  engagement  to  Mr.  Crawford,  it  is 
certainly  true,"  says  Evelyn  coldly. 

11  Oh,  Evelyn  !"  Then  "  why  have  you  done  this  thing  ?  * 
cries  she.  "What  is  the  meaning  of  it  ?  I  have  heard  a 
good  deal.  But  even  to  save  your  uncle — oh,  surely  there 
Were  other  ways." 

"  I  have  not  said  it  was  to  save  the  colonel,"  says  Evelyn, 
frho  is  fast  growing  into  her  most  impossible  mooa. 

"  No.  But  I  can  guess.  What  is  the  matter  with  you? 
Your  voice,  your  very  face  is  changed,  Evelyn." 

"  I  don't  beliove  Irish  air  is  good  for  English  people," 
says  Evelyn,  with  a  rather  nasty  little  laugh.  "If  I'm 
changed,  what  are  you  ?  And  what  is  it  all  about  ?  I  have 
promised  to  marry  Mr.  Crawford — I  am  quite  willing  to 

U—  3 


!9«  A  LIFE'S  BBMOWHR, 

marry  him.  I  can't  for  a  moment  imagine  why  you  are 
making  all  this  fuss  about  it." 

"  Don't  you  ?  "  Miss  Vandeleur  leans  forward  and  gazes 
earnestly  into  her  friend's  face.  There  is  something  in  the 
intensity  of  her  regard  that  annoys  Evelyn  ;  she  turns  aside 
with  a  slightly  haughty  movement  of  her  shoulders. 

"  Don't  treat  me  in  this  way,  Evelyn.  We  used  to  be 
friends.  Surely  we  are  so  still.  If  you  were  my  own 
sister  I  could  not  love  you  more.  No,  don't  turn  your 
face  away,  let  me  look  at  you." 

"  Look  then ! "  says  Evelyn,  with  a  strange  little  smile, 
turning  her  eyes  full  upon  Marian. 

"  It  is  a  terrible  thing,"  says  the  latter,  with  great  agita- 
tion. "  How  am  I  to  regard  it  ?  You  can't  be  in  love  with 

him.  It  is  impossible,  and  besides "  she  hesitates  and 

breaks  off.  "  If  you  tell  me  you  love  him,  I'll  believe  you," 
says  she  ;  "  but  I  know  you  can't.  May  and  December  ! 
A  strange  alliance !  Who  induced  you  to  throw  away  your 
life  like  this  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Crawford,  naturally." 

"  I  don't  believe  it." 

"  You  are  an  old  friend,  as  you  say.  You  have  of  course 
the  right  to  be  rude.  But * 

"  What  nonsense  !  "  interrupting  her  warmly.  "  You  may 
as  well  listen  calmly  to  me,  Evelyn,  because  I  shan't  leave 
this  house  until  I  quite  understand  how  it  is  with  you.  I 
know  you  are  not  in  love  with  Mr.  Crawford,  and  there- 
fore I  regard  this  projected  marriage  as  iniquitous.  If  you 
were  any  one  else  I  should  say  you  were  doing  it  for  the 
sake  of  his  money,  but  being  yourself,  I  feel  you  are  doing 
it  for  the  sake  of  the  colonel.  If  it  is  only  a  question  of 
getting  your  uncle  out  of  his  difficulties,  why  /  have  money 

— I  can  arrange  for  all  that — I Oh  !  why  didn't  you 

write  to  me  ?  " 

"  You  take  everything  for  granted,"  says  Evelyn,  with  a 
touch  of  passion.  "  Why  should  you  imagine  me  unhappy 
in  this  engagement  ?  What  earthly  reason  is  there  that  I 
should  not  marry  him  ?  " 

"  Because,  for  one  thing,  he  is  old  enough  to  be  your 

father,  and  for  another "  she  pauses ;  again  a  look  in 

the  young  girl's  face  checks  her. 

"  Well  ?     For  another  ?  "  defiantly. 

*'  As  I  said  before,  you  are  not  in  love  with  him.*1 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  197 

"  No,"  slowly,  "  that  is  quite  true.  I  am  not  in  love  with 
him.  But,"  raising  fraudulent  eyes  to  hers,  and  flinging 
up  her  head,  "  I  am  not  in  love  with  any  one  else  either. 
I  am  sure  I  am  one  of  those  uninteresting  people  who  will 
never  be  in  love.  Never — never!"  with  absolute  vehemence. 

Miss  Vandeleur,  as  if  silenced  by  it,  stands  with  downcast 
eyes.  Wordless,  but  unmistakably  unconvinced. 

Something  in  this  calm  disbelief  in  what  she  has  said 
rouses  Evelyn  to  greater  impatience. 

"  You  don't  believe  me,"  says  she.  "  But  is  love  every- 
thing ?  Is  it  so  great  a  necessity  that  all  the  world  must 
succumb  to  it  ?  Are  there  no  other  virtues  ?  He  is  kind, 
thoughtful.  I  like  him ;  I  find  pleasure  in  his  society,  la 
all  that  nothing  ?  " 

"  Evelyn,"  begins  Miss  Vandeleur,  but  Evelyn  with  » 
little  gesture  of  the  hand  refuses  to  hear  her. 

"  Well,  I  shall  speak  to  the  colonel,"  says  Miss  Vandeleu* 
with  decision.  "  I  can't  think  what  he  is  about,  to  sanction 
such  a  marriage  ?  " 

"  To  speak  to  the  colonel ! "  cries  Evelyn  with  a  start. 
"Why  ?  what  has  it  got  to  do  with  him  ?  One  would  think 
I  was  a  baby  the  way  you  all  treat  me.  If  you  must  know" — • 
wrathfully — "  Mr.  Crawford  has  been  very  good  about  tha 
colonel's  troubles,  but  I  won't  have  it  put  into  the  colonel's 
mind  that  I  am  marrying  Mr.  Crawford  simply  to  benefit 
him.  It  isn't  true.  Do  you  hear,  Marian  ?  It  isn't  true  ;  and 
I  forbid  you  to  meddle  with  my  affairs.  No  one  shall  allow, 
or  not  allow,  my  marrying  whom  I  choose  1 " 

"  Of  course  not,"  gently ;  she  turns  a  little  aside,  as 
though  she  cannot  bear  to  look  at  the  girl's  flushed  cheeks 
and  gleaming  eyes,  and  determined,  pained  little  mouth, 
"  Only — when  one  is  your  friend.  When  one  loves  yot !  f 

There  is  a  silence,  during  which  neither  of  them  seems  to 
breathe,  and  then  suddenly  Evelyn  bursts  into  a  bitter  flood 
of  tears. 

"  I  am  behaving  badly  to  you — I  know  it.  But  I  have  bef  a 
so  worried  about  all  this,"  cries  she,  "and- -though  that  13 
not  my  motive  for  marrying  him,"  lying  piously  all  through 
— "  still  it  will  be  such  a  help  to  the  colonel,  and  Kitty,  and 
all  the  children.  So  much  I  confess ;  but  I  beg — I  insist" 
angrily — "that  you  will  understand  that  I  like  Mr.  Crawford 
for  himself — that  I  think  he  is  one  of  the  best  rnea  or 
earth," 


198  A  MFBS  REMORSE. 

"He  is  a  very  estimable  man,"  says  Marian  soothingly. 
But  when  she  would  have  attempted  to  put  her  arms  round 
the  girl  Evelyn  repulses  her  gently  but  decidedly ;  and,  as 
though  her  very  touch  has  chilled  her,  her  tears  cease,  and 
the  little  touch  of  softness  that  had  come  with  them  dis- 
appears. 

"As  I  have  told  you,  I  am  not  a  loving  sort  of  person," 
says  she.  "  And  therefore  it  really  doesn't  matter  whom  I 
marry." 

The  glaring  absurdity  of  this  speech  is  unnoticed  by 
Marian,  whose  mind  is  indeed  bent  upon  another  matter 
altogether. 

"  How  you  insist  on  that ! "  says  she.  Going  up  to 
Evelyn  she  lays  her  hands  upon  her  shoulders,  and  compels 
her  to  look  at  her.  "  It  seems  to  me  you  do  protest  too 
much,  Evelyn.  Believe  me,  this  is  a  matter  of  life  and 
death.  And  you  may  not  wrong  o;}ly  yourself  but  an- 
other." 

"  I  shall  not  wrong  Mr.  Crawford,"  says  Evelyn  in  a  little 
stony  way. 

"  No.  Not  Mr.  Crawford.  You  would  wrong  no  one 
knowingly.  But — I  thought  there  was  some  one  else  !  " 

Evelyn's  first  impulse  is  to  fling  "her  from  her.  But  she 
restrains  herself. 

"  That  thought  was  folly,"  says  she,  with  so  much  gentle- 
ness that  the  coldntss  underlying  it  can  hardly  be  resented. 
"  You  mean  Eaton  Stamer,  of  course." 


CHAPTER    XXXVIIL 

"YES,"  says  Marian  nervously,  being  a  good  deal  startled 
by  this  direct  mention  of  Eaton's  name.  Evelyn  regards 
her  curiously. 

"  I  fancied  so.  But  I  think  he  and  I  have  been  friends 
too  long  to  be  ever  anything  more." 

"  Is  that  so,  Evelyn  ?  "  very  gravely. 

"  Entirely  so.  I  assure  you,  you  need  not  be  uneasy." 
She  smiles  rather  superciliously.  "Why  should  it  not  be 
so  ?  Is  it  not  a  reasonable  idea  ?  Oh  !  you  may  believe 
me,  if  it  will  give  you  any  comfort." 

"  It  gives  me  great  comfort,"  gently. 


&  laf  E'S  REMORSE.  19$ 

*Yes — yes.  I  know  all  about  that."  She  pulls  herseM 
together  involuntarily,  and  raises  her  hand  to  her  head  as  if 
to  still  the  throbbings  of  the  nervous  brain  within.  If  any- 
thing had  been  left  to  tell  her  that  Marian  was  desirous 
of  marrying  Eaton,  here  now  it  is,  disclosed  to  her ! 

"Besides,"  says  she  bitterly,  "  you  forget !  It  is  a  most 
fortunate  thing  that  Eaton  and  I  did  not  fall  in  love  with 
each  other — that  is  the  orthodox  phrase,  is  it  not  ?  "  with  a 
cold  little  laugh.  "  Because  assuredly  La'dy  Stamer  would 
not  have  welcomed  me  as  a  daughter-in  law." 

"  That  is  beside  the  question,"  says  Marian  decidedly. 

"  Is  it  ?  It  is  part  of  it  surely  ?  A  penniless  girl  she 
would  never  countenance." 

"  That  is  nothing.     Eaton  has  money  of  his  own." 

"You  go  too  far,"  cries  Evelyn,  rising  suddenly  and 
looking  almost  tall  as  she  stands  frowning  down  upon  the 
other.  "  Eaton — I  swear  to  you,  if  you  want  so  strong  con- 
firmation— is  nothing  to  me,  nor  am  I  anything  to  Eaton  ; 
and  as  for  his  mother,  be  certain  of  this — I  am  not  the 
daughter  for  her,  whatever  you  may  be." 

It  is  a  rather  direct  attack ;  it  had  not  been  premeditated, 
and  had  sprung  only  from  the  girl's  sore  heart.  Her  eyes 
being,  however,  fixed  on  Marian,  she  cannot  fail  to  see  that 
from  pale,  Miss  Vandeleur's  cheeks  have  turned  to  pink, 
and  from  that  to  richest  carmine. 

It  is  a  revelation.  That  Marian  might  have  made  up 
her  mind  to  marry  him,  and  so  join  the  two  estates,  is  one 
thing ;  to  know  that  she  loves  him  is  another.  Evelyn's 
heart  sinks  low,  her  lips  whiten.  A  full  minute  goes  by. 

"  Is  it  so  ?  "  says  she  at  last  very  gently.  "  It  never 
seemed  to  me  quite  true,  until  this  moment.  You  love  him, 
then  ?  " 

"How?  Love  him?  I  don't  know  what  you  mean, 
Evelyn,"  says  Miss  Vandeleur  with,  if  possible,  a  deepening 
of  her  colour,  and  a  certain  disconnection  in  her  speech. 

"  They  all  told  me  so,"  says  the  girl,  with  unconscious 
melancholy ;  "  but  somehow  I  never  believed  it.  It  was 
foolish  of  me,  wasn't  it  ?"  with  a  poor  attempt  at  a  smile. 
"What  every  one  says  is  always  right;  I  shoutdha.ve  known 
—but "—  with  terrible  pathos—  "  I  didn't." 

"  Well,  so  perhaps  should  I,"  says  the  other  haughtily ; 
**  but  I  am  still  as  ignorant  as  I  can  be." 
?  You  may  not  wish  to  speak  of  it ;  I — "  very  calmly,  yet 


*00  A  LIFE'S  EEMORSS. 

with  a  touch  cjf  feeling — "  can  quite  understand  that,  and 
you  needn't  speak  of  it.  I  know  now  all  about  it."  Thera 
is  weariness  in  her  tone,  but  no  longer  any  agitation ;  in 
truth  it  is  all  over.  Nothing  can  matter  very  much,  and  as 
she  must  marry  Mr.  Crawford  it  is  just  as  well  that  there  ia 
nothing — nothing — nothing  in  the  world  to  care  for. 

"You  know  what?"  demands  Marian  impatiently. 
"  Come,  Evelyn,"  going  closer  to  her  and  laying  a  com- 
pelling  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  "  I  insist  on  knowing  what 
all  this  is  about." 

"  Oh,  what  nonsense  ! "  says  Evelyn,  a  little  impatient  in 
her  turn.  "  Why  make  a  mystery  of  it  ?  Everybody  knows 
— everybody  is  looking  forward  to  it ;  I  alone  disbelieved." 
She  pauses,  and  presses  her  fingers  to  her  forehead  as 
though  some  pain  lies  there.  "  Curious,  wasn't  it  ?  "  saya 
she.  "  Lookers-on  see  most  of  the  game ;  yet  I  looked  on  as 
well  as  they,  and  though  they  could  see  I  couldn't." 

"T/ity?"  says  Miss  Vandeleur,  almost  passionately;  "and 
who  were  '  they,'  may  I  ask,  and  what  had  I  done  to  make 
me — me"  growing  very  pale,  and  regarding  Evelyn  with 
angry  eyes,  "  a  subject  of  gossip  for  the  county  ?  " 

"  People  will  talk,  you  see,"  says  Evelyn  a  little  bitterly. 
"  Even  you  may  not  be  exempt  from  gossip,  and  what,  then, 
is  to  be  hoped  for  me  ?  And  after  all,"  raising  sad  eyes  to 
hers — eyes  in  which  lie  deep  reproach — "  if  you  do  love 
him,  why  deny  it  ?  Is  he  not  worthy  to  be  loved  ?  I  have 
known  Eaton  for  many  years,  and M 

"  Eaton — Eaton  Stamer  !  "  cries  Marian,  interrupting  her 
vehemently.  The  words  seem  to  have  been  forced  from 
her,  have  broken  from  her  against  her  will.  A  second  later 
she  would  have  recalled  the  impulsive  outburst,  but  it  is  now 
too  late ;  Evelyn  has  heard — has  guessed. 

Indeed,  over  Evelyn  a  strange  change  has  passed.  Her 
eyes  seem  to  dominate  every  other  feature,  and  shine  out 
from  her  white  face  with  a  singular  brilliance. 

"  If  not  Eaton "  bfegins  she  in  a  voice  as  strange  as 

her  expression,xand  then  stops  dead  short.  The  truth  has 
reached  her,  has  forced  itself  upon  her.  "  Oh,  Marian," 
says  she  feebly ;  a  revulsion  of  feeling  renders  her  absolutely 
faint.  If  there  was  no  truth  in  that  lying  story — if  he  was 

nothing  to  Marian,  and  if  Marian  was But  how  to  be 

lure  of  that  ? 

But,  oli,  if  it  is  all,  all  true,  how  will  it  be  with  her  /     If 


A  LIFE'S  KEMQK3J&  flOl 

trie  fcmaM,  fiappy  fancies  that  at  times  have  found  root  is 
her  heart  have  been  honestly  healthy  plants,  and  are  still 
growing,  how  will  it  be  with  her  then  ?  But  they  are  not 
true,  those  fancies — she  tells  herself  so  with  a  passionate 
fervour.  If  he  had  loved  her  he  would  have  spoken  before 
leaving  her  for  long,  long  months.  The  old  affection  for 
Marian,  chilled  but  not  killed,  rises  again  within  her  heart, 
increased  a  thousandfold.  She  too  is  unhappy,  and  in  the 
same  way ;  she  loves,  and  knows  no  love  in  return.  The 
tears  rush  into  Evelyn's  eyes.  Alas  !  how  sad  a  world  it  is. 

She  turns  to  Miss  Vandeleur  and  would  have  taken  her 
hand,  but  the  other  refuses  to  see  her  attempt 

"  You  will  forget  what  has  been  said,  Evelyn,"  says  she. 
in  a  harsh  voice.  There  is  no  entreaty  in  her  tone,  but  i^ 
she  speaks  she  seems  to  compel  the  girl's  regard.  "  Think 
what  you  will ;  it  will  be  false." 

Evelyn,  lifting  her  eyes  to  hers,  is  shocked  by  the  havoc 
the  last  few  minutes  have  made  in  the  usually  calm  face- 

"  I  know  nothing,"  says  she  gently. 

"  Remember  nothing  either." 

" Not  until  I  may"  says  Evelyn  softly.  Then  suddemy 
she  bursts  into  a  storm  of  tears,  and  flings  herself  into  Miss 
Vandeleur's  arms.  "  Oh,  for  you — for  you  there  is  hope," 
sobs  she;  "  for  me,  none."  The  cry  seems  to  come  from  a 
bruised  heart.  "  I  was  abominable  to  you  just  now,  Marian, 
but  I  thought — I  thought  you  were  in  love  with  Eaton. 
Hush !  there  is  no  use  in  speaking ;  it  is  all  over.  He  does 
not  care  for  me,  and — the  other  does,  and — I  wish  I  was 
dead." 

"  Evelyn,  Evelyn  1 "  says  Miss  Vandeleur  in  a  sort  of 
desperation. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

••IT'S  *  sfiame  /  "  says  Mrs.  Wyldin^-Weekes,  with  all  the 
emphasis  that  belongs  to  her.  She  has  one  young  man  on 
her  right  and  another  young  man  on  her  left,  and  is  feeling 
so  happy  that  she  believes  herself  to  be  virtuous. 

"  What's  a  shame  ?  "  demands  Lady  Stamer  with  a  super- 
cilious glance  at  the  first  speaker.  She  feels  herself  so 
entirely  beyond  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes  both  temporally  and 


ioz  A  LTFE^  EEMORSH. 

spiritually,  that  she  hardly  puts  her  best  foot  foremost  when 
entering  on  a  scrimmage  with  her,  and  therefore  seldom 
conies  off  anything  but  second  best. 

"  Why  this  projected  marriage  between  that  pretty  Evelyn 
D'Arcy  and  the  old  man  who  hangs  round  here,"  says  Mrs. 
Wylding-Weekes,  without  a  pang  of  remorse  at  the  vulgarity 
of  her  speech. 

They  are  all  "  hanging  round  here  "  just  now.  Mr.  Craw- 
ford having  invited  almost  everybody  to  a  day's  skating  on 
his  lakes,  and  to  tea  and  etceteras  afterwards,  everybody  has 
accepted  the  invitation  and  has  come. 

"  If  you  mean  Mr.  Crawford,"  says  Lady  Stamer  with  a 
sneering  severity  that  would  have  subdued  anybody  but 
Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes,  but  is  completely  thrown  away  upon 
her,  "  I  think  you  take  a  distinctly  wrong  view  of  the  case. 
To  me,  she  appears  in  no  other  light  save  as  an,  exception- 
ally fortunate  girl." 

"  Ah  !  "  says  Mrs.Wylding -Weekes.  There  is  a  good  deal 
of  contempt  for  the  person  answered  conveyed  in  this  seem- 
ingly simple  monosyllable.  As  a  fact,  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes 
holds  no  one  in  reverence.  The  Archbishop  of  Canterbury 
himself  would  be  to  her,  if  brought  into  immediate  con- 
nection with  him,  a  mere  common  mortal  and  nothing  more. 
"  That's  because  you  know  nothing  about  it,"  says  she 
presently. 

"  '  To  know  nothing  at  all  about  it '  is  the  one  happy  state 
of  life,"  says  Mr.  Blount  with  prophetic  instinct.  As  usual 
he  is  on  the  spot. 

"  That  is  to  be  distinctly  deceitful,  Bartholomew,"  says 
Lady  Stamer,  addressing  Mr.  Blount  but  pointing  her 
remark  at  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes.  ''  One  must  be  a  person 
of  remarkably  distorted  views  of  what  is  right  and  what  is 
wrong  to  give  way  to  such  a  sentiment  as  that." 

"  Well,  he  may  be  right,  or  he  may  be  wrong,"  says  Mrs. 
Wylding-Weekes  impartially ;  "  bi»t  as  far  as  he  goes  I 
agree  with  him.  Them's  my  sentiments  too."  She  laughs 
in  an  altogether  aggravating  way. 

"They  are  not  mine,"  says  Ladj-  Stamer  sternly,  trying. 
to  look  down  this  obnoxious  young  woman  and  failing 
miserably. 

"  They  wouldn't,  of  course,"  say?  the  obnoxious  young 
woman  ;  "  'tisn't  good  enough  for  you,  is  it  ?  You  haven't 
lived  up  to  this  style  of  thing.  Time's  up  for  you,  eh? 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  §03 

But,  I  assure  you,  Batty  has  hit  a  truth.     He's  done  it  in 

the  eye.     He  knows  ! " 

"  He  knows  what  I  do  not — the  new  argot,"  says  Lady 
Stamer  crushingly.  "  I  do  not  aspire  to  such  knowledge. 
I  confess  it  is  beyond  me — beyond  the  compass  of  most 
well-bred  people." 

"Beyond  me,  you  mean,"  says  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes  un- 
embarrassed, and,  in  effect,  rather  delighted  with  this  pros- 
pect of  a  row  royal.  She  happens  to  be  in  great  feather, 
to-day — literally  speaking — her  frock  being  Parisian  and 
beyond  question. 

To  be  well  gowned  is  to  be  of  good  spirit,  as  most  people 
will  acknowledge.  In  that  delightful  book,  "  Backlog 
Studies,"  the  author  tells  us  that  in  Boston  they  hold  the 
opinion,  "  That  there  is  a  satisfaction  in  being  well  dressed 
which  religion  cannot  give." 

This  is  perhaps  going  far — but  not  farther  than  the  honest 
truth  will  carry  some  people.  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes  is  at 
heart  a  Bostorrfan. 

"But  I'm  not  so  entirely  out  of  it  as  you  moral  people 
may  wish  to  believe,"  says  she  beaming  cordiallyupon  Lady 
Stamer,  who  detests  her.  "  I'm  full  of  the  loveliest  senti- 
ments !  I  believe  in  all  the  old  trash.  Such  as  love,  for 
example." 

"  That  is  not  trash,"  says  Lady  Stamer.  "  Nobody  with 
a  heart  could  call  it  so." 

"No.     Nobody  with  a  heart,"  says  her  tormentor. 

"To  return  to  our  original  topic,"  says  Lady  Stamer  with 
a  frown,  "  I  consider  Evelyn  D'Arcy  a  very  lucky  girl" 

"  I  don't,"  says  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes  promptly. 

"  Well,  of  course  not.    You  have  such  peculiar  views." 

"  Have  I  ?  How  you've  studied  me.  You  are  nearly 
as  good  a  friend  as  Mr.  Wylding-Weekes.  He  tells  me  of 
all  my  little  peccadilloes.  He  is  full  of  information  about 
them.  He  is  a  perfect  treasure,"  says  Mr.  Wylding- 
Weekes's  wife  with  a  radiant  smile.  "He  is  a  regular 
almanac  so  far  as  my  sins  go.  He  can  give  you  day  and 
date  for  every  one  of  them.  So  can  you,  it  seems." 

"I  assure  you,  you  credit  me  too  far.  Mr.  Wylding- 
Weekes  may  naturally  feel  an  anxiety  about  you — but  so  far 

as  /am  concerned But  we  were  talking  about  Evelyn 

D'Arcy,  were  we  not?  and  her  approaching  marriage. 
You  hav^  led  nie  very  far  afield,  but  to  begin  at  the  begin* 


C®4  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

nhg  I  will  at  once  say  that  I  do  not  see  how  she  could 
have  done  better." 

"I  do,"  says  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes  promptly.  "A  lot 
better.  For  example,  there  is " 

"Just  a  moment  I"  says  Lady  Stamer  rising  abruptly  but 
gracefully,  and  hurrying  across  the  grass  to  somebody  who 
undoubtedly  has  not  sent  her  so  much  as  a  glance  of  invi- 
tation. 

"  Sold ! "  says  Mr.  Blount,  looking  at  Mrs.  Wylding- 
Weekes. 

"  Is  that  how  you  look  at  it  ?  "  says  she.  " '  Jo  triumphef 
would  be  my  cry." 

"  Well,  I  hardly  know,"  says  Mrs.  Vaudrey  hesitating. 
She  has  just  come  up,  and  has  heard  something  of  the  dis- 
cussion, and  is  divided  between  her  longing  to  agree  with 
anybody  against  Lady  Stamer  and  her  desire  to  befriend 
Mr.  Crawford,  of  whom  she  is  a  thorough  partizan.  There 
is  a  third  battle  in  her  mind  that  would  at  a  pinch  upset  all 
the  others.  Evelyn — if  she  were  to  be  made  unhappy—- 
every one  else  might  go  to  the  wall  first.  Upon  this  matter 
even  she  and  her  Reginald  are  of  accord. 

"  Pouf ! "  says  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes.  "  Don't  you  think 
Eaton  Stamer  would  be  a  more  desirable  companion  for 
even  a  part  of  one's  life  than  that  old  fossil  up  here  ?  " 

"  But  if  Eaton  doesn't  care  for  her — and  if  Mr.  Craw- 
ford (you  shouldn't  call  him  a  fossil,  my  dear !  there  are 
older  men  than  he) — and  if  our  good  host  of  to-day  is  in  love 
with  her,  and  she  with  him " 

"  If !  Rubbish,"  says  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes.  "  Oh,  here 
is  Lady  Stamer  back  again.  We're  still  at  it,  Lady  Stamer. 
Still  discussing  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  this  marriage  that 
/call  iniquitous.  See  what  it  is  to  be  stranded  in  a  small 
country  place  with  only  one  idea  between  the  lot  of  us. 
We  are  now  wondering  why  on  earth  Evelyn  has  not  chosen 
a  young  man — instead  of  Mr.  Crawford." 

"Very  few  young  men  have  anything  to  recommend 
them,  whereas  Mr.  Crawford " 

"  Has  made  his  pile  !  I  know  all  that.  But  money  isn't 
everything.  That's  what  the  good  folks  say,  and  you're  a 
good  folk,  aren't  you,  Lady  Stamer  ?  " 

"  I  don't  profess  to  be  clever  enough  to  understand  slang," 
says  Lady  Stamer.  "But  I  hope  I  do  my  duty  at  all 
times." 


A  LIFE'S  EEMOKSE.  «of 

"All,  you  see,  you  do  understand,"  says  Mrs.  Wylding- 
Weekes  with  an  irreverent  laugh.  "  Well,  but  if  money  isn't 
everything,  why  should  we  congratulate  Evelyn  on  this 
engagement  ?  " 

"Because  Mr.  Crawford  is  a  most  desirable  parti.  He 
3s  honourable,  charitable — a  good  man  in  every  respect. 
I'm  sure  I  can't  imagine  what  he  sees  in  her,"  with  pious 
malignity.  "  But  as  it  is,  I  should  think  she  ought  to  be 
proud  to  know  herself  his  wife.  What,  after  all,  could  a 
young,  man  have  to  offer  her  in  comparison  ?  " 

"  His  hair,  and  a  tooth  or  two,"  says  Mr.  Blount  mildly. 
"  Nonsense  !  Don't  be  absurd,  Bartholomew,"  says  Lady 
Stamer  angrily.  The  apocryphal  young  man  has  now  become 
Eaton  Stamer  to  all  present,  and  is  as  distinctly  on  the  tapis 
as  if  his  name  had  been  mentioned.  "  Has  Mr.  Crawford* 
no  hair — no  teeth  ?  Pray  be  reasonable — if  you  can." 

"  I  was  wrong  ! "  says  Mr.  Blount,  still  very  mild.  "  His 
hair  is  all  his  own,  so — let  us  hope — are  his  teeth.  "  But  the 
'  young  man '  might  have  hair  too  ?  May  he  have  hair  ?  n 
wiih  an  imploring  glance.  "And  it  might  be  brown  instead 
of  white." 

"  Mr.  Crawford's  hair  is  not  white.  It  is  barely  grey.  A 
most  becoming  colour  I  always  think." 

"  So  do  I — and  so  suggestive,"  says  Mrs.  Coventry,  with 
her  ill-natured  smile.  "  Silver  shade,  isn't  it  ?  Miss  D'Arcy 
evidently  admires  it  too." 

"  I  think  any  one  who  would  seek  to  upset  such  a  marriage 
as  this,"  says  Lady  Stamer  with  a  fell  glance  at  Mr.  Blount, 
who  receives  it  with  an  amiable  grin,  "  might  honestly  be 
regarded  as  Miss  D'Arcy's  worst  enemy.  It  is  a  chance  that 
she  will  never  get  again.  And  if  it  so  happens  that  he  is  a 
little  older  than  her,  what  does  that  matter  ?  " 

"Nothing — nothing!"  says  Mr.  Blount  airily.  "A  cen- 
tury or  two,  what  is  it  after  all  ?  There  are  many  delight- 
ful old  people  about  the  world.  Santa  Klaus  and  old 
Father  Christmas,  for  example.  Evelyn  has  loved  them  in^ 
imagination  from  her  youth  up.  Why  should  she  not  love 
one  of  'em  in  reality  now?" 

Mrs.  Coventry  laughs. 

"You  are  a  little  severe  on  Mr.  Crawford,  don't  you 
think  ?  "  says  she. 

"  Not  a  bit.  He's  as  old  as  Fathe*1  Abraham,"  says  Mrs. 
Wylding-Weekes,  "  whilst  Evelyn  is  a  baby." 


eo6  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

"  Oh,  a  very  clever  baby,  surely  I "  says  Lady  Stamer, 
ft  sneer. 

"  You  aren't  much  of  a  judge  of  character  if  you  think 
her  mercenary,"  says  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes.  "  She's  got 
about  as  much  idea  of  hooking  any  one  as  the  child  unborn." 

"  Eh  ?  "  says  Lady  Stamer,  raising  her  glasses  to  survey 
her  pretty  opponent  with  the  proper  amount  of  scorn 

necessary  to  the  occasion.     "  You  mean ?     You  really 

apeak  such  a  very  remarkable  language  that — er— — " 

11  I'll  translate  it  if  you  like,"  says  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes, 
with  the  utmost  amiability.  "  What  I  mean  is,  that  if 
Evelyn  had  a  grain  of  the  common  sense  that  ought  to  belong 
to  all  girls  in  these  days  when  matrons  think  they  can  ride 
rough-shod  over  them,  she  would  have  landed  that  young 
man  of  whom  Batty  has  been  speaking,  long  "before  this. 
See  ?  Shall  I  now  translate  to  you  the  young  man  ?  " 

"  No,  thanks,"  says  Lady  Stamer  hastily,  and  with  a  glance 
that  would  have  killed  her,  if  there  was  death  in  any  glance. 

Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes  laughs  gaily — a  little  maliciously 
perhaps — rises,  beckons  to  both  her  cavaliers,  and  having 
made  Mr.  Blount  a  present  of  a  small  grimace,  sails  away 
towards  the  other  end  of  the  lawn. 

"  How  society  can  tolerate  that  young  woman,"  says  Lady 
Stamer  wrathfully,  as  the  young  woman  fades  from  view- 
round  a  corner,  "  has  been  to  me  a  moral  puzzle  for  some 
time  past." 

"  She  is  amusing.  Society  forgives  a  good  deal  to  the 
people  who  are  good  enough  to  afford  them  a  laugh  now  and 
then.  It  is  an  age  barren  of  laughter,"  says  Mrs.  Coventry. 

"  Her  support  of  Evelyn  D'Arcy  is  hardly  one  to  be 
desired,"  says  Lady  Stamer.  "  '  Birds  of  a  feather,'  is  an 
old  adage  and  a  true  one.  This  sudden  friendship  of  hers 
for  that  wild  little  girl,  who,  I  am  told,  does  nothing  but  train 
horses  from  morning  till  night,  argues  badly  for  the  latter." 

"Yes?    But  how?" 

"  Well.     Arcades  ambo,  you  know." 

"Oh,  my  dear  Lady  Stamer  !  " 

**You  need  not  take  the  ordinary  slang  interpretation. 
But  really  I  can  hardly  imagine  that  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes 
can  mean  good  to  Evelyn  D'Arcy." 

"  Perhaps  not.     Perhaps  she  desires  to  lead  Mr.  Crawford 
into  her  own  net,  and  so  would  prevent  his  marriage  wiib 
D'Arcy." 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  107 

*' You  said  *  Oh '  to  me  just  now.  Surely  I  have  stronger 
grounds  for  saying  '  Oh '  to  you  now.  That  is  a  very  con- 
demnatory suggestion  of  yours  about  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes. 
However,  the  real  point  of  discussion  is  Mr.  Crawford's  in- 
fatuation for  that  girl.  It  is  the  luckiest  thing  that  could  have 
happened  to  her.  -Although  scarcely  a  friend  of  hers — you 
know  I  do  not  altogether  approve  of  her — still  I  should  be 
glad  to  see  her  well  married." 

"  I  can  quite  understand.  She  would  be  out  of  the  way," 
says  Mrs.  Coventry  with  calm  impertinence.  "  She  is  very 
pretty.  I  don't  know  her  well,  but  it  has  often  occurred  to 
me,  that  people — young  men,  you  know — might  find  her 
attractive." 

"  They  do,"  says  Mr.  Blount,  with  feeling. 

"You  are  not  the  young  man  in  question,  are  you?" 
asks  Mrs.  Coventry,  laughing.  It  gives  her  a  sort  of  pleasure 
to  hanker  round  the  one  subject  that  gives  Lady  Stamer 
acute  anxiety. 

"  No,  but  one  of  them,"  says  Mr.  Blount.  "  You  must 
not  think  she  is  reduced  to  a  miserable  unit." 

"Young  men  as  a  rule  haven't  got  a  penny,1"  says  Lady 
Stamer.  "They  are  totally  impecunious.  If  Bartholomew 
were,  as  you  suggest,  a  suitor  for  Miss  D'Arcy's  hand— 
which  I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  declare  he  is  not — what  could 
he  offer  her  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  says  Mr.  Blount  mournfully.  "  Neither  money 
nor  position.  Not  "—-thoughtfully — "  not  even  a  wrinkle. 
Yes,  yes,  you  can  see  for  yourself,  Mrs.  Coventry,  that 
Crawford  has  very  greatly  the  pull  over  me." 

"  You  have  proved  your  case,"  says  she.  "But  are  you 
sure  you  aren't  the  real  and  original  young  man  whom  you 
yourself  introduced.  You  speak  with  so  much  feeling  that 

one  almost No,  you  need  not  speak.  Of  course,  we 

all  know  that  the  really  clever  thing  is  to  tell  as  few  lies  as 
one  can  manage  ;  why  should  I  throw  you  off  the  line?" 

"You  couldn't,"  says  he.  "If  that  'young  man*  of 
whom  you  speak  exists,  it  is  not  me,  worse  luck." 

"  Ah  ! "  she  turns  her  bright  but  malicious  eyes  on  Lady 
Stamer.  "  Perhaps  you  can  tell  me  ?  "  says  she. 

"  The  last  person  in  the  world."  says  Lady  Stamer  coldly. 
*  I  know  no  more  of  Miss  D'Arcy  and  he*  love  affairs 
than  you  do." 

«  That  is  nothing." 


•08  A  LIFE'S  EEMORSB. 

"Well,  why  pre-suppose  any  love  affair,  save  this  with 
Mr.  Crawford  ?  If  he  is  found  willing  to  give  himself  away 
to  an  unformed  creature  like  that,  why  should  not  she  be 
found  not  only  willing,  but  thankful,  to  give  herself  to  him  ?  " 

"Why  not?  indeed,"  says  Mr.  Biount.  "Ah  I  Here 
comes  the  bride-elect." 


CHAPTER  XL. 

"  You  don't  find  it  too  cold  ?  "  says  Mr.  Crawford,  who  has 
come  up  to  them  with  Evelyn. 

"  Not  in  this  sheltered  spot,"  says  Lady  Stamer,  "  And 
what  a  mild  day  it  is.  You  are  going  on  ?  Dear  Evelyn  1 
so  pleased  to  see  you."  With  a  little  smile  and  hand 
pressure  that  might  have  done  duty  for  a  life-long  friend- 
ship. Evelyn,  turning  large  inquiring  eyes  on  her,  drops 
her  hand  languidly. 

"Yes,  to  the  waterfall  Miss  D'Arcy  has  never  yet  seen 
it  in  all  its  magnificence.  But  last  week's  rains  have  swollen 
it  to  a  quite  tremendous  beauty.  Will  you,"  with  reluctant 
politeness,  "  come  with  us  ?  " 

"  Not  just  yet,"  says  Lady  Stamer,  who  has  been  daunted 
by  Evelyn's  direct  stare.  "Mrs.  Coventry  and  I  have 
promised  ourselves  a  look  at  it  by-and-by." 

"  Oh  !  have  we  ?  I  didn't  know,"  says  Mrs.  Coventry, 
who  is  nothing  if  not  disagreeable. 

Her  words  fall  only  on  the  ears  of  Lady  Stamer,  however, 
the  other  two  having  passed  out  of  sight,  Evelyn  pale,  but 
with  her  lovely  face  full  of  light  and  full  too  of  a  sweet 
determination  to  be  good  to  Mr.  Crawford. 

On  and  over  the  wooden  bridge  they  go,  with  the  river 
rushing  beneath  their  feet  and  the  roar  of  the  distant  catar- 
act within  their  ears. 

Evelyn  pausing  at  the  end  of  the  bridge,  leans  her  arms 
upon  the  wooden  parapet  and  gazes  down  into  the  stream, 
that  here  runs  calmly,  if  swiftly.  Through  the  clear  water 
the  brown  stones  shine,  and  every  now  and  then  a  darting 
thing  flashes  from  bank  to  bank. 

"  How  bright  it  is,  how  calm,  how  clean ;  quite  like  a 
lovely  life,"  says  Mr.  Crawford  in  a  low  tone.  "  One  can 
see  right  into  it.  There  is  nothing  hidden.  Down  in  the 


A'LIFE'S  REMORSE.  »jj» 

depths  of  it  there  are  only  polished  stones,  that  shine 

like  jewels;  all  is  purity,  peace "  A  heavy  sigh  stays 

his  words. 

"  A  charming  simile,"  says  she  softly.  "  See — see  too, 
how  it  hastens  to  its  glad  eternity — the  ocean.  And  how  it 
helps  and  waters  and  gives  life  to  the  pretty  weeds  as  it  goes. 
Like  the  pure  life  again  it  makes  haste  to  redeem  its  time, 
so  as  at  last  to  gain  its  heaven." 

"  To  gain  heaven  !  Either  in  this  life  or  the  next,  how 
few  find  that." 

"  Oh  !  not  so  few  perhaps." 

"  Who  can  say  ?  If  heaven  is  so  attainable  as  you  be- 
lieve, who  would  care  to  linger  here  ?  " 

"  How  sadly  you  speak,"  says  the  girl,  turning  her  eyes 
to  his.  "  Is  life  without  charm  to  you?  Dcr  you  indeed 
long  for  death  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  no,  no,  no  /"  exclaims  he  sharply.  A  shudder 
runs  through  him.  He  makes  an  effort  to  recover  himself 
and  fling  off  the  fit  of  depression  that  has  been  troubling 
him  all  the  morning. 

"  Life  must  be  sweet  to  me,"  says  he  with  a  tender  smile. 
"  Has  it  not  given  me  you  ?  " 

"  Ah !  you  seemed  to  be  forgetting  that  just  now,"  says 
she,  vrith  a  glance  so  full  of  a  pretty  coquetry  that  it  sets  all 
his  pulses  leaping.  In  time — in  time,  she  may  learn  to 
love  him ;  and  his  heaven  will  be  gained  in  this  world,  if 
it  be  denied  him  in  the  next. 

For  the  moment  trouble  dies  away  from  him.  A  blessed 
forgetfulness  steeps  all  his  soul  in  peace.  The  dull  winter 
day  becomes  glorious  summer  and  a  wonderful  silence  falls 
upon  the  land — a  land  that  holds  but  two  people  ;  him  and 
her.  It  seems  to  him  as  though  here  in  the  very  midst  of 
Stirring  life  a  long  pause  has  come.  Is  the  world  really 
moving  ?  Is  there  a  world  at  all  ?  Or  is  this  a  new  dreamy 
ecstatic  state  in  which  thought  and  memory  are  mercifully 
impossible,  and  only  bliss  perfected,  holds  sway  ? 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  says  Evelyn  suddenly,  who  has  gone  on 
a  little  in  front,  lost  in  thoughts  of  her  own.  A  small  little 
brown  thing  has  run  out  from  the  ba«k  of  the  river  almost 
at  her  feet,  and  is  making  a  rush  for  the  shelter  of  some 
•tones  farther  off.  A  shrill  bark  from  the  terrier  that  is 
following  close  at  Mr.  Crawford's  heels,  tells  them  wfcat  it 
ea.  The  rat  seeing  her  natural  enemy,  throws  her  heart 


•10  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

into  her  race.  Terror  lends  her  wings,  but  too  late ;  the 
terrier,  an  implacable  wire-haired  creature,  has  seen  her, 
and  makes  a  forward  dash. 

"  Oh  !  stop  him  ;  don't  let  him  kill  it,"  cries  Evelyn  in 
a  voice  of  agony.  The  thought  that  she  may  see  the  rat 
mangled  before  her  eyes,  causes  her  a  sick  sensation ;  the 
training  of  her  youth  has  made  her  almost  as  active  as  the 
dog  himself,  and  by  a  quick  effort,  she  flings  herself  on  her 
knees  before  him,  and  catches  his  struggling  little  body  in 
her  hands. 

Maddened  by  his  disappointment  and  furious  at  the  loss 
of  his  prey,  the  dog  with  a  shrill  yelp  turns  upon  Evelyn, 
and  meeting  his  vicious  little  white  teeth  in  the  sleeve  of 
her  coat,  tears  savagely  at  it,  uttering  fierce  growls  the 
while.  It  takes  only  a  second  to  reach  the  flesh  within, 
and  as  his  teeth  pinch  her,  a  sharp  cry  breaks  from  Evelyn. 

"  Ah  ! "  says  she.  There  is  time  for  no  more.  Craw- 
ford's fingers  have  closed  like  a  vice  upon  the  dog's  neck, 
forcing  the  animal  to  open  its  jaws.  Dragging  him  from 
Evelyn's  arm,  he  holds  him  with  a  violent  strength  for  a 
moment  or  two,  shaking  him  backwards  and  forwards,  and 
then  with  a  fierce  imprecation  flings  him  from  him  into  a 
bunch  of  withered  bracken  close  by. 

"  You  are  not  hurt  ?  "  cries  he,  turning  his  livid  face  to 
Evelyn — the  eyes  glowing,  the  nostrils  dilated  and  white. 
"  He  has  not  torn  you  ?  " 

"No — no,  it  is  nothing,  nothing.  But  the  dog!"  ex- 
claims Evelyn  in  a  panting  whisper.  She  shudders  con- 
vulsively, and  shrinks  away  from  him,  pointing  in  a  terrified 
manner  to  the  spot  on  which  the  body  of  the  dog  is  lying. 
Even  as  she  looks,  a  last  faint  quiver  runs  through  the  little 
form  that  but  just  this  moment  was  so  full  of  angry  life — 
and  now  it  succumbs  to  death.  "  You  have  killed  him  ! " 
says  she  trembling.  As  she  says  it  she  bursts  into  tears. 

"  Killed  him,"  repeats  Crawford,  in  a  low  but  awful  voice. 
If  pale  before,  he  looks  ghastly  now,  and  an  expression 
creeps  into  his  eyes  that  makes  Evelyn  feel  faint  and  cold. 

"  Dead  !  dead  !  "  says  he,  in  a  dull  way,  his  gaze  fastened 
on  the  body  of  the  dog.  "How  did  it  happen — was  it  I  ? 
.  .  .  In  one  moment !  one  little  moment !  So  old,  but 
yet  so  full  of  life — and  in  one  short  moment !  I,"  vehe- 
mently, "  I  never  meant  it.  I  swear  it.  But  the  blood—* 
who  can  wipe  out  the  blood ?  " 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  flU 

His  manner  nas  grown  wild  and  strange.  Almost  it  seems 
to  Evelyn  that  he  is  wandering.  The  girl,  filled  with  a  great 
compassion  for  him,  goes  nearer  and  lays  her  hand  upon  his 
arm.  The  tears  still  stand  thickly  in  her  eyes,  and  one  or 
iwo  are  running  down  her  cheeks. 

"  Don't  be  so  unhappy  about  it,"  says  she,  with  earnest 
entreaty.  "You  did  not  mean  it — of  course  you  did  not 

mean  it.  And  that  poor  little  creature — he "  she  breaks 

down  here  in  hsr  small  attempt  to  comfort  him.  "  Oh,  I 
am  sorry  you  killed  him,  I  am  sorry,"  cries  she  passionately. 
"And  it  was  all  my  fault — it  was  to  save  me  you  did  it." 

"I  was  not  accountable,"  says  Mr.  Crawford,  still  in  that 
strange  forced  way,  as  though  he  were  pleading  his  case 
before  a  bar  <sf  justice — an  unkindly  bar.  "  I  knew  nothing 
until  it  was  al?  over — a  whole  day  afterwards  I  The  first 

time  I  knew  of  it  was  when "  He  stops  suddenly  and 

looks  down  at  ?ier  in  a  dazed  way,  but  yet  with  suspicion  in 
his  eyes. 

"  You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying,"  says  she  gently. 
She  is  frightened  by  his  manner,  but  nevertheless  brave  in 
her  determination  to  help  him.  "  You  are  taking  this  too 
much  to  heart," 

"  True  !  true  1  I  am  taking  it  too  much  to  heart,"  repeats 
he  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

"  Forget  it-  -think  of  me,"  whispers  she,  subduing  heroic- 
ally a  strong  inclination  to  cry,  and  compelling  herself  to 
think  only  of  him.  "  See  now,"  smiling  tremulously,  "  I  am 
of  some  small  importance  in  your  sight — am  I  not  ?  When 
I  tell  you  I  am  tired — that  I  would  like  to  go  back  to  the 
house — to  the  others " 

"Yes;  corns."  He  turns  away,  following  her  command 
but  showing  her  none  of  the  fond  observances  that  have  up 
to  this  encompassed  her  as  with  a  cloud.  He  walks  .iway 
in  the  direction  of  the  house,  obeying  her  words,  but  as  if 
forgetful  of  the  fact  that  she  is  with  him. 

"JBut  the  dog.  You  will  not  leave  him?  He  must  be 
buried,"  says  Evelyn  falteringly,  whose  affection  for  all 
dumb  animals  is  part  of  her  life.  She  has  grown  up  with 
them — nursed,  reared  and  buried  many  of  them — and  has  a 
fondness  for  them  that  no  time  will  ever  obliterate. 

"  Was  he  buried  ?  "  says  Mr.  Crawford,  looking  back  at 
her  over  his  shoulder.  "  I  never  heard.  Not  deep,  I  think." 
There  is  a  weird  suggestion  in  his  glanc^  &r,c'.  then,  all  a! 


•19  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE, 

once,  "  Ah ! w  cries  he.  It  is  indeed  with  a  snarp  cry  that 
he  recovers  himself.  The  veil  that  has  fallen  on  his  mind 
is  now  lifted,  and  once  more  he  is  himself, 

"  I  will  see  to  it — to  the  dog,"  says  he.  "  Come  home 
now.  You  look  frightened,  tired.  Evelyn  !  you  have  been 
crying ! " 

He  stops  short.  This  sudden  revelation  of  the  fact  that 
he  has  up  to  this  been  blind  to  her  emotion,  disturbs  Evelyn 
more  than  all  that  has  gone  before. 

"  You  did  not  know  ?  "  says  she  gravely. 

"  I  was  too  much  upset,  too  much  annoyed  with  myself,** 
returns  he.  "  You  must  forgive  me  that,  if  you  can.  Bui 
to  kill  a  dog  like  that,  unknowingly,  would  disturb  most 
men,  I  fancy.  Besides,  the  fear  that  he  had  seriously  hurt 
you  distracted  me  at  first.  My  fears  were  groundless? 
There  was  only  the  alarm  ?  " 

"  Only  that,"  says  she,  preferring  somehow  to  keep  secret 
the  knowledge  of  that  wounded  spot  upon  her  arm.  Surely, 
surely  that  poor  little  brute  had  had  too  terrible  a  punish- 
ment already.  Why  add  to  his  great  misfortune  angry 
thoughts  ? 

"Well,  come  now.  I'll  send  a  man  to  see  about  his 
burial,"  says  Crawford.  He  takes  Evelyn's  hand  and  leads 
her  forward  through  the  dry  wintry  ferns  and  grasses  for  a 
yard  or  so,  then,  as  though  some  inner  spirit  is  tormenting 
him,  he  turns  to  her  and  looks  with  a  terrible  appeal  into 
her  eyes. 

"  Evelyn  !  Evelyn  !  Have  pity  on  me !  Do  not  despise^ 
do  not  fear  me  1  You  are  my  one,  one  hope ;  do  not  fail 
me." 

"I  shall  not  fail  you,"  says  she  with  lovely  kindness. 
"You  may  trust  me  for  ever." 

"  You  are  my  life,  my  all,"  says  he  with  deep  agitation. 
"  Do  you  know  that  ?  I  am  a  silent  man,  I  say  little ;  but 
if  all  the  feeling  of  all  the  world  could  be  poured  into  one 
stream,  it  could  not  be  stronger  than  the-  love  I  bear  to 
you." 

He  does  not  attempt  to  caress  her  as  he  speaks.  He 
stands  indeed  rather  back  from  her,  with  one  of  her  hands 
clasped  closely  between  both  of  his. 

"  I  am  glad  you  love  me,"  says  she  very  sadly.  Alas  I 
alas !  for  that  other  love  that  might  have  been ! 

"And  in  spite  of  all — of  everything — you  will  still  trust 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSB.  fti| 

me  ?  You  will  give  yourself  to  me  ?  You  do  not  shrink 
from  me  ?  "  asks  he,  lifting  her  hand  and  pressing  it  feverishly 
against  his  lips.  "  Oh,  Evelyn,  do  not  forsake  me." 

"  Have  I  not  promised  you  ?  "  says  she  reproachfully.  "  Is 
my  word  so  light  a  thing  ?  " 

"But  to  chain  a  bright  life  such  as  yours  to  one  so  alto* 
gether  unhappy " 

"Are  you  unhappy?  I  have  often  thought  it,"  says  she 
gently.  "  And  I  have  thought,  too,  that  if  I  can  help  you 
to  think  less  about  your  trouble,  I  may  be  of  some  small 
use  to  you.  But,"  she  pauses  nervously,  and  then  looks 
straight  at  him,  "  why  are  you  unhappy  ?  " 

"  I  might  deceive  you,"  says  he  quietly,  after  a  full  minute 
has  gone  by,  "  but  I  prefer  not  to  do  so.  I  confess  honestly 
that  there  is  one  past  trouble  in  my  life  that  is  always 
remembered  by  me — and  with  sore  distress.  A  trouble 
that  I  believe  will  never  be  forgotten  by  me.  I  cannot  tell 
you  what  it  is.  1  cannot  confide  it  to  you  or  any  living 
peing.  If  it  daunts  you  now,  Evelyn,  say  so." 

"  But  that  is  so  vague,"  says  she  faintly. 

"  It  must  always  be  vague.  It  is  my  own  trouble.  It 
has  nothing  to  do  \\ith  any  living  man  or  woman.  It  has 
nothing  to  do  with  any  woman,  living  or  dead.  It  shall 
have  nothing  to  do  with  my  love,  my  adoration  of  you — 
with  my  determination  to  lay  my  life,  such  as  it  is,  at  your 
feet,  to  make  a  football  of  it,  if  you  will" 

"  I  shall  not  do  that,"  says  she. 

"  No ;  you  are  not  of  that  sort.  But  still  I  resign  my- 
self absolutely  to  your  will ;  it  is  all  I  can  do." 

"  Why  do  you  not  say  that  you  have  money — that  you 
can  shower  that  upon  me  ?  "  says  sht^  with  a  little  burst  of 
feeling. 

"  Because  you  are  you  !  Don't  I  know  how  little  weight 
sheer  dross  would  have  with  you  ?  Don't  I  know,  too,  that 
you  are  willing  to  marry  me  without  love  because  it  will  be 
for  the  good  of  your  uncle,  and " 

"  He  does  not  know  that,"  interrupts  she  quickly ;  "  be 
careful  that  he  never  does.  And  after  all,  is  not  that 
marrying  you  for  the  love  of  money  ?  " 

Her  tone  has  grown  very  sorrowful. 

"  No.  To  desire  money  for  oneself,  and  to  desire  it  for 
another,  are  two  different  phases  of  feeling.  One  is  sordid, 
the  other  is  noble.  I  fear — I  /<w«".  says  he,  "  so  strong 


814  A  LIFE'S 

is  my  love  for  you,  that  I  should  accept  your  sacrifice  of 
yourself,  even  though  I  knew  the  first  feeling  to  be  really 
yours.  As  it  is " 

"  Yes  ?  "  with  grave  question. 

"  Do  riot  ask  me  to  lay  bare  my  heart,"  says  he  in  a  low 
tone.  "  It  is  too  full — of  you  !  " 

"  Oh,  do  not  think  too  much  of  me,"  says  the  girl,  her 
own  heart  aching.  "You  will  only  be  disappointed;  you 
give  so  much,  I  am  giving  so  little.  It — it  troubles  me  that 
you  should  love  me  so  greatly." 

"Let  nothing  trouble  you.  Think  always  that  I  consider 
myself  blessed  above  measure  in  that  you  have  consented  to 
give  me  your  friendship  and  to  let  me  give  you  my  love." 

"  A  poor  bargain,"  with  a  faint  smile. 

"A  rich  one,  1  think.  Ah  !  here  are  the  others.  Would 
you  rather  not  see  them  ? "  turning  anxiously  to  her. 
"Would  you  rather  go  into  the  house?  You  have  bc^n 
distressed.  I  will  explain." 

"  No ; "  she  shakes  her  head ;  a  little  nervous  smile 
parts  her  lips  ;  "  there  are  gossips  in  these  days,"  says  she. 
"We  will  give  them  no  occasion  of  falling  foul  of  us.  If  I 
left  you  now  in  full  view  of  them,  they  might  say  I  had 
learned  something  to  your  disadvantage  during  our  walk. 
You  see  ?  " 

"  I  see,"  says  he,  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 

Slowly  they  advance  towards  the  group  assembled  under 
the  southern  wall  of  the  beautiful  old  house. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

!T  is  a  very  picturesque  group.  The  day,  although  dull,  is 
not  cold,  and  the  women,  sitting  here  and  there,  or  walking 
up  and  down  the  terraces  in  their  furs  and  laces,  with  here 
and  there  a  touch  of  crimson  to  relieve  the  darkness  of 
their  costumes,  make  a  charming  picture  against  the  glisten- 
ing background  of  the  trailing  ivy,  that  everlasting  garment 
of  old  winter.  Here  cut  close  against  the  walls,  and  there 
banging  in  all  its  native  luxuriance  from  the  towers  and 
battlements,  it  seems  ever  bent  on  clothing  the  chilly  old 
king  in  a  verdure  green  as  summer  hath  it,  in  spite  of  the 
frosts  and  snows. 


A  UFJTS  REMORSE,  fti$ 

Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes  has  been  playing  her  eterna!  banjo, 
and  singing  to  it  apparently,  though  only  the  ceaseless, 
monotonous  sound  of  its  tum-tum-tum  comes  to  Evelyn 
and  Mr.  Crawford  as  they  draw  near. 

Evidently  it  has  been  an  Anglo-negro  melody  of  the  very 
latest  fashion,  and  probably  of  a  very  pronounced  type,  as 
quite  a  burst  of  applause  breaks  from  the  male  court  that, 
as  usual,  has  formed  itself  round  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes,  as 
fit  comes  to  a  termination.  She  herself  seems  to  be  dying 
with  laughter,  whilst  afar  off,  in  the  shade  of  «a  gum  tree, 
Mr.  Wylding-Weekes  may  be  seen  aglow  with  wrath  sub- 
dued. 

"Give  you  another?"  asks  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes  gaily, 
with  a  disgracefully  ill-concealed  glance  towards  her  hus- 
band and  a  nudge  to  Batty  Blount.  "  Bond,  fide  this  time  ! 
No  nonsense  about  it !  Straight  from  Kentuck.  The  real 
article — warranted  to  wear  and  to  wash.  Who's  for  it  ? 
Say  !  " 

A  dozen  hands  go  up  at  once,  all  with  the  manly  shirt- 
cuff  at  the  end  of  them.  Whereupon  she  gives  them,  with 
immense  spirit,  a  truly  terrible  ditty  that  has  a  good  deal  to 
do  with  the  wily  opossum. 

*•  An  opossum  up  a  gum  tree^ 
Up  he  go, 
Up  he  go." 

It  is  unpardonable.  The  allusion  to  the  gum  tree  over 
there,  with  Mr.  Wylding-Weekes  not  exactly  up  it,  but  dis- 
tinctly raging  beneath  it,  is  only  too  apparent. 

"  I  really  wish  she  wouldn't"  says  Evelyn  nervously,  in 
a  low  aside  to  Mr.  Crawford,  who  is  looking  distressed. 
Every  one  is  wishing  that,  except  the  reckless  few ;  but  all 
the  wishing  is  of  no  avail. 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  says  Mr.  Crawford  gravely. 

To  Evelyn  it  seems  that  it  is  almost  more  than  that ;  but 
she  is  in  a  specially  depressed  mood  in  which  all  unpleasant 
things  take  alarmingly  huge  proportions. 

The  killing  of  that  dog  is  still  fresh  to  her.  The  scene 
refuses  to  be  laid,  and  repeats  itself  over  and  over  before 
her  imagination.  And  Mr.  Crawford's  face !  That  cruel 
light  in  his  eyes  as  he  had  held  the  poor  little  brute.  With 
what  an  awful  tenacity  he  had  held — and  choked  it ! 

And  that  he — he  should  have  been  the  hero  of  this  sorry 


eiS  A  LIFE'S  REMORaB. 

affair.  That  is  the  real  mystery  that  troubles  her.  Other 
men  in  their  wrath  might  have  done  it,  but  that  he  should 
have  done  it  disturbs  her.  Was  there  ever  man  so  kind,  so 
calm,  so  gentle  almost  to  melancholy  ?  Yet  his  rage  had 
been  strange,  horrible.  And  the  regret — that  came  too  late 
— surely  that  had  been  as  strange,  as  exaggerated  as  the 
rage  itself. 

How  was  it  with  him  ?  What  curious  nature  had  she  lit 
upon  thus  early  in  her  young  journey  through  life  ?  Always 
she  can  see  before  her  those  fierce  eyes  and  the  fiercer 
clutch  of  the  fingers  round  the  dog's  throat ;  and  as  she 
thinks  of  it,  she  shrinks  afresh  from  him  with  a  strong 
repugnance. 

To  blame  herself  a  moment  later  !  For  with  the  fear  of 
him  there  is  always  present  with  her  a  pity  for  him,  a  pity 
that  is  divine. 

"  What  a  delicious  old  place  this  is,  Mr.  Crawford,"  says 
Marian  Vandeleur,  with  a  view  to  getting  rid  of  Mrs. 
Wyluing-Weekes  and  her  outrageous  conduct. 

"  Yes,  isn't  it  ? "  says  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes  promptly, 
who  has  always  something  to  say  about  every  topic  under 
the  sun.  "Just  like  the  old  barracks  one  reads  of.  That 
thing  of  Tennyson's,  don't  you  know,  eh  ?  The  Moated 
Grange — what  ?  " 

"An  excellent  name.  A  most  appropriate  one,"  says 
Crawford  courteously,  in  that  slow  way  of  his,  his  eyes  on 
the  ground.  He  smiles  as  he  speaks,  but  to  his  heart  he 
shows  a  different  face.  She  had  hit  upon  a  truth,  this  silly 
woman.  Despair  lay  there,  in  that  old  moated  grange  of 
poetry  ;  despair  lies  here  ! 

"I  hardly  think  so,"  says  Miss  Vandeleur  gently ;  "very 
inappropriate  surely.  It  is  a  sunny  old  place,  with  no 
suspicion  of  that  ideal  gloom  a'ujut  it,  to  which  Mrs. 
Wyiding-Weekes  alludes." 

"Things  are  not  always  on  the  surface,"  says  Crawford 
lightly,  yet  toying,  as  he  always  will,  with  the  remorseful 
melancholy  at  his  heart.  "  For  all  we  may  know,  in  this 
more  real  spot  a  soul  may  lie  panting  for  liberty." 

"  How  ungallant,"  cries  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes,  with  her 
shrill  cackle  and  her  usual  delicacy  ;  "  'pon  my  word,  for  a 
freshly-engaged  man,  that  isn't  bad.  Panting  so  soon  for 
liberty.  Evelyn;  are  you  going  to  stand  that?  " 

"One  must    envy  you   your   imagination;   it  is  very 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  tij 

lively,"  says  Mr.  Crawford  with  exquisite  sweetness.  There 
is  not  the  smallest  tinge  of  either  embarrassment  or  resent- 
ment in  his  tone.  "  But  indeed  I  was  but  calling  on  my 
own  imagination,  when  I  supposed  there  might  be  a  dis- 
contented spirit  in  this  grange.  So  you  see  I  have  a  little 
of  that  charm,  of  which  just  now  I  was  envious." 

"  Oh !  that's  all  very  fine,"  says  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes, 
with  a  shrug  of  her  pretty  shoulders.  "  But  I  half  think 
you  meant  it.  I've  studied  you,  you  know,  and  I  believe 
you  dearly  love  to  pose — to  show  yourself  off— as  a  social 
martyr,  without  exactly  going  into  the  reason  of  it." 

"  Have  you  seen  the  winter-houses  ?  They  are  charm- 
ing," says  Sir  Bertram  Stamer  at  this  moment,  addressing 
Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes  with  empressement.  "  No  ?  May  I 
accompany  you?  " 

"  You  mean  that  I  am  not  behaving  myself  properly  and 
that  I  ought  to  be  removed,"  replies  that  indiscreet  matron, 
without  hesitation.  "  Well,  lead  on.  I'm  not  often 
favoured  by  an  attention  from  you.  I  feel  I  have  been 
putting  my  foot  in  it  in  earnest,  when  you  come  to  the 
rescue.  Mr.  Crawford  " — looking  back  at  him  with  a  beam- 
ing smile — "  if  I've  sinned  forgive  me,  and  don't  let  any  one 
take  away  my  character  whilst  I'm  absent." 

"  You  can't  take  away  what  y*u  can't  lay  hold  of,"  says 
Mrs.  Coventry,  with  a  little  sarcastic  glance  at  Lady  Stamer. 
"  A  most  improper  person,"  says  Lady  Stamer  severely. 
"  When  is  she  to  be  dropped  ?  that  is  what  I  want  to  know." 
"  Never  !     She  is  the  ingredient  that  makes  the  social 
pudding  eatable.      You  would  condemn  her  to  penal  servi- 
tude for  life,     /should  present  her  with  a  gold  medal." 

"  But  why  ?  "  asks  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  who  has  come  up,  and 
who  is  looking  very  cold  in  a  thin  dolman  that  had  done 
duty  all  last  summer.  She  is  puzzled,  and  divided  in 
opinion  between  her  longing  to  denounce  Mrs.  Wylding- 
Weekes  for  her  late  suggestion  that  Crawford  could  be  un- 
happy (when  engaged  to  such  a  dear  girl  as  Evelyn),  and 
the  sneaking  affection  she  entertains  for  that  most  impoa- 
sible  if  kind-hearted  coquette. 

"Have  I  not  said  it?  Because  she  is  the  salt  that 
savours  our  dull  corner  of  the  earth ;  the  naughty  glass  of 
brandy  that  flavours  our  pudding,  but  to  which  all  virtuous 
people  close  their  eyes;  the  little  touch  of  learea  ^ 
makes  our  barm  rise." 


fig  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

"  Or  our  venoms,"  says  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  quite  neatly  fof 
her. 

"How  animated  you  all  look,"  says  Mr.  Crawford,  ap- 
proaching them  at  this  moment.  "  So  more  than  kind  of 
you  on  this  colourless  day.  Madame  Iscar  is  going  to  sing 
now,  I  think  "  (a  fresh  celebrity  he  has  got  down  from  Lon- 
don to  assist  them  in  getting  rid  of  their  day).  "  Don't 
hurry ;  but  in  a  minute  or  two,  if  any  of  you  care  for  sing- 
ing, I  think  she  will  please  you." 

"  We  all  adore  it,"  says  Lady  Stamer,  who  is  specially 
gracious  to  him  on  every  occasion,  not  to  say  grateful.  Has 
he  not  taken  a  worry  off  her  mind,  and  left  an  unwise  son 
without  the  means  of  continuing  on  in  his  folly  ? 

"  Yet  to  leave  this  charming  view  is  indeed  a  compliment 
to  Madame  Iscar,"  says  Miss  Vandeleur.  "What  pleasure 
can  lie  even  in  an  ordinary  winter  day.  No  snow,  no  ice ; 
a  heavy  sky ;  leafless  trees,  if  one  gets  beyond  the  shrub- 
beries, and  in  spite  of  all  that  there  is  a  nameless  charm  that 
holds  me  out  of  doors  when  I  feel  I  ought  to  be  within.  You 
feel  it,  Evelyn  ?  " 

Miss  D'Arcy  has  been  so  singularly  silent,  that  her  friend's 
heart  grows  afraid  for  her.  And  what  are  those  dark  circles 
under  her  eyes  ?  Has  she  been  crying  ?  Does  crying  mean 
regret  ?  And  if  so,  what  of  this  news  that  bears  upon 
to-morrow?  Has  Evelyn  heard  it  yet  ? 

"I  like  winter,"  says  Evelyn  impassively,  "and  I  like 
this  place.  How  quiet  it  is.'  Like  death!" 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  says  Miss  Vandeleur,  a  good  deal  shocked. 
"Th'e  prettiest  place  !  Like  a  calm  life  rather." 

"  Like  death,  /  think,"  with  a  gentle  persistency.  Mr. 
Crawford  has  moved  away  and  is  talking  to  Mrs.  Vaudrey* 
but  now  he  is  coming  back  to  the  girls  again  over  the. 
short  shaven  grass.  He  has  compelled  himself  to  be  mv 
demonstrative,  but  to  stay  away  from  Evelyn  for  long  ii 
impossible  to  him. 

"  It  has  the  quiet  of  death  surely,"  says  Evelyn,  "  an<? 
all  its  other  charms."  Then  with  a  soft  glance  at  her  friend, 
"  There  is  no  place  for  memory  here." 

"We  were  talking  about  this  place.  It  pleases  Evelyn," 
says  Miss  Vandeleur,  aS  Crawford  joins  them.  Her  own 
heart  revolts  against  this  marriage ;  but  if  it  is  to  be — if 
Evelyn  has  made  up  her  mind  to  it — surely  it  is  a  friend's 
part  to  make  the  thorny  path  less  thorn;  for  her. 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  ftt* 

"It  does,"  says  Evelyn,  looking  kindly  up  at  him.  "The 
very  walls  awake  my  admiration.  How  clothed  they  are, 
how  rich  with  growing  things.  They  in  themselves  are  a 
beauty." 

"  I  am  glad  you  like  them ;  I  confess  that  I  myself  hold 
4hem  in  great  respect,"  says  Mr.  Crawford,  giving  Evelyn  a 
swift  full  glance,  that  though  brief  is  so  replete  with  pas- 
sionate life  and  love  that  Marian's  heart  dies  within  her. 
"  Walls  are  like  children,"  goes  on  Mr.  Crawford,  in  his 
calm,  thoughtful  way.  "  When  first  born  they  are  naked,  and 
then  come  the  kindly  mosses  and  grasses,  covering  them  day 
by  day,  year  by  year,  until  in  their  old  age  they  are  alto- 
gether decent,  clothed  with  an  excellent  garment  of  green, 
and  grey  lichens,  and  with  the  ivy  that  covers  so  many 
multitudes  of  sins." 

"Oh,  the  ivy;  that  is  a  true  friend  to  nature,"  says 
Marian. 

"  Why?  It  only  hides — and  hides — and  hides,"  says 
Evelyn  petulantly. 

"  Well,  is  that  not  something  ?  " 

"  No.  Why  should  there  be  anything  to  hide  ?"  more  petu- 
lantly still.  "  Is  not  nature  perfect  ?  " 

"  But  the  walls  are  man's  work,  and  man  is  not  perfect.'* 

"  Then  it  is  man  the  ivy  covers,"  says  Evelyn  quickly. 
She  turns  to  Crawford  with  a  restless  smile.  "  You  hear 
that  aspersion  upon  your  sex  ?  "  says  she.  "  Have  you  no 
word  to  defend  yourself  ?  What  is  it  you  would  hide  ?  " 

It  is  a  random  shot,  but  it  tells.  Crawford,  though  out- 
wardly unmoved,  feels  his  courage  forsake  him.  At  this 
moment  Mr.  Blount,  standing  on  the  highest  step  of  the 
balcony  that  leads  into  the  reception  rooms,  calls  aloud  to 
them.  It  is  a  departure  for  Mr.  Blount,  who,  as  an  unvary- 
ing rule,  always  turns  up  when  he  is  not  wanted.  Just  now 
he  is  a  haven  of  refuge  to  Crawford. 

-  "I  sa^,,  good  people,  she's  going  to  begin,"  roars  he 
genially,  alluding  presumably  to  the  prima  donna  within. 
"Aren't  you  going  to  patronize  her?  She's  looking  very 
black,  Crawford.  It's  my  opinion  she  expects  you  to  see 
her  through,  eh  ? " 

"  We're  coming,"  says  Mr.  Crawford  equably. 


A  LIFE'S  REMORS& 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

MADAME  ISCAR  has  excelled  herself,  has  received  with  a  fa« 
graciousness  all  the  smiles  and  pretty  words  showered  upon 
her,  has  even  been  good  enough  to  make  them  a  present  of 
a  song  not  in  the  agreement,  has  expressed  herself  charmed 
with  the  Grange  and  its  master  and  his  friends,  and  abstains 
from  even  a  single  yawn  until  the  carriage  doors  have  closed 
upon  her  and  she  is  safely  started  up  the  avenue  on  her 
way  to  the  4.30  train  that  will  carry  her  back  to  her  beloved 
London  and  far  from  these  estimable  but  intolerable 
country  folk,  who  are  just  now  congratulating  themselves 
secretly,  if  not  openly,  on  their  good  manners  and  the 
kindly  fashion  in  which  they  have  consented  for  once  to 
receive  a  public  singer  as  though  she  had  been  one  of 
themselves.  "  Quit*  a  common  person — no  family — not  at 
all  in  our  set ;  a  person,  you  know,  who — well  really " 

No  doubt — they  whisper  confidentially,  with  a  glow  of 
generosity  at  their  hearts — she  must  have  been  greatly  flat- 
tered by  her  reception.  They  had  not  made  the  slightest 
difference  with  her ;  had  sat  quite  close  to  her  several  times. 
And  one  of  them  had  given  her  a  rose.  She  had  been  so 
pleased,  poor  thing ;  had  said  quite  lovely  things  about  it. 
Of  course  it  was  a  day  she  would  never  forget — this  ming- 
ling on  terms  of  equality  with  the  County. 

Poor  County  l 

Now  that  she  has  at  last  been  compelled  to  "tear  herself 
away"  (that  is  how  they  look  at  it),  they  rise  themselves, 
and  draw  into  little  groups  and  order  their  carriages. 

Evelyn  happens  to  form  one  of  them,  with  Mrs.  Coventry, 
two  or  three  other  people  in  the  neighbourhood,  Marian,  and 
Mrs.  Vaudrey.  Mr.  Blount  is  hovering  on  its  outskirts, 
conducting  a  most  able  skirmish  with  one  of  the  D'Arcy 
children. 

"  We  must  be  going,  really.  It  is  awfully  late  !  "  says  an 
ethereal  looking  young  woman,  who  is  beginning  to  love  the 
thought  of  her  dinner — generally  a  hearty  one — and  to  hate 
the  thought  of  the  long  drive  that  lies  between  her  and  it. 

"  Yes.  The  carriages  are  ordered.  You  won't  have  to 
be  hungry  much  longer,"  says  Mis.  Coventry,  who  knows 
everything  about  everybody,  and  is  generally  nasty  all 
round 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSB.  tal 

**I'm  never  hungry,"  says  the  ethereal  young  woman, 
with  a  wondering  stare  from  her  large  sad  eyes. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  then  you  shouldn't  look  it,"  says  Mrs. 
Coventry,  tapping  her  playfully  with  her  fan.  "  Eat  up—- 
eat up  all  you  can  lay  your  hands  on,  and  perhaps  Provi- 
dence will  be  good  to  you  and  remove  the  signs  of  emacia- 
tion that  are  at  present  disfiguring  you." 

A  s  emaciation  is  the  one  thing  on  which  the  ethereal  one 
prides  herself,  she  naturally  receives  this  with  resentment. 

"  I  am  as  Heaven  made  me,"  says  she  with  deep  solemnity. 

"  Or  Mother  Nature,"  suggests  Mrs.  Coventry,  una- 
bashed. 

"  One  should  always  fix  one's  eyes  upon  the  highest 
points,"  says  the  thin  young  woman  ecstatically. 

"  That's  what  /think,"  says  Mr.  Blount,  who — having  re- 
duced the  youngest  D'Arcy  child  to  tears,  and  having  restored 
him  to  tranquillity  by  half-a-crown — is  now  as  gay  as  a  lark. 
"  Fix  your  weather  eye  on  the  top  of  Mont  Blanc,  for  ex- 
ample— from  a  convenient  site — keeping  your  head  up  all 
the  time,  and  there  you  are,  you  know !  You've  felt  you've 
done  it,  after  half  an  hour's  hard  gazing.  You've  got  througti 
the  slips,  the  stumbles — the  hairbreadth  escapes — the  all 
but  certain  death,  and  yet  you're  safe  in  wind  and  limb  at 
the  end  of  it.  Idiots  go  up  and  get  killed  You  don't, 
and " 

"  No,  you  don't,"  says  Mrs.  Coventry  drily. 

Miss  Vandeleur  laughs  a  little. 

"  I'm  afraid  for  once  you  are  at  fault,  Mrs.  Coventry," 
says  she.  "  As  it  is  so  rare  an  occasion,"  with  irrepressible 
maliciousness,  "you  may  forgive  it  Mr.  Blount  is  ao 
accomplished  Alpine  climber." 

"  Now,  my  dear  Marian,  no  taradiddles,"  says  Mr.  Blount 
severely.  "I  am  entirely  against  that  kind  of  thing.  Stkk 
to  the  moral  path,  the  safe  path — in  this  case,  odd  to  s?y, 
the  lowest  one — and  you'll  certainly  have  your  reward. 
The  m-moral  path — odd  again — is  the  one  that  leads 
upwards  in  this  instance.  It  has  been  censured  many  a 
time,  and  very  justly.  Suicide  has  been  put  down  by  law. 
I  entirely  agree  with  Mrs.  Marjoribanks,"  with  a  glance  at 
the  ethereal  young  woman.  "Keep  your  eye  upon  the 
highest  point  by  all  means,  but  keep  your  foot  off  it." 

"  How  frivoious  you  are,"  Mrs.  Marjoribanks,  very  ua« 
gratefully  it  must  be  acknowledged. 


•fit  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

Mrs.  Coventry,  annoyed  by  her  late  mistake,  and  feeling 
therefore  venomous,  looks  round  her  with  a  view  to  hurting 
somebody.  Her  small  eyes  fall  on  Evelyn,  who  is  looking 
a  little  pale  and  tired.  Does  she  know  ?  Has  she  heard  ? 
At  all  events  it  will  be  amusing  to  see  how  she  will  take  it 

"  How  delightfully  that  woman  Iscar  sang,"  says  she. 
"  A  pity  Captain  Stamer  missed  her.  He  is  to  be  home  to- 
morrow I  hear.  A  day  earlier  and  he  would  have  been  here." 

She  is  looking  straight  at  Evelyn,  so  directly,  indeed,  as 
almost  to  invite  the  regard  of  the  others  to  the  girl,  who  is 
standing  looking  back  at  her,  a  strange  shocked  look  upon 
her  face.  It  is  momentary,  however.  Nobody  but  the 
malicious  speaker  has  seen  it,  though  Marian  has  somehow 
felt  it,  and  so  has  Mr.  Blount,  who  is  a  strange  mixture  of 
sense  and  nonsense,  but  who,  through  all,  carries  the  kind- 
liest heart. 

"  I  expect  he  has  heard  her  a  hundred  times,"  says  he. 
w  She's  just  returned  from  a  tour  in  Ireland.  Dublin  raved 
about  her ;  and  Stamer  likes  music.  There's  the  colonel 
calling  you,  Evelyn.  Oh  !  he's  just  gone  past  the  window 
now.  Come  ;  I'll  take  you  to  him." 

He  hurries  the  girl  away,  without  giving  her  time  to 
demur,  down  the  long  room  into  the  open  air  and  to  the 
spot  indicated  where  the  colonel  had  certainly  not  been. 

"  Hah  ! "  says  Mrs.  Coventry.  "  There  is  more  in  Mr. 
Blount  than  one  would  imagine  from  his  exceedingly  vacuous 
countenance  and  inane  conversation.  I'm  afraid  my  unfor- 
tunate remark  about  Captain  Stamer's  sudden  return  upset 
Miss  Vandeleur," 

"  Why  should  it  ? "  says  Marian,  regarding  her  with  in- 
tense and  cold  disdain.  She  had  heard  of  Eaton's  home- 
coming an  hour  ago,  and  has  been  lost  in  miserable 
uncertainty  as  to  how  best  to  make  it  known  to  Evelyn. 
To  have  had  it  thus  sprung  upon  her,  and  intentionally,  is 
intolerable. 

"  Don't  you  think  she  was  a  little  Ipris  there  ?  And  per- 
haps he  a  little  too — Lady  Stamer  is  anything  but  overjoyed 
at  his  unexpected  home-coming,"  she  laughs  with  thorough 
enjoyment.  "  I  fancy  this  engagement  with  our  good  host 
is  hardly  to  Miss  D'Arcy's  entire  liking." 

"  And  imagining  all  this,  you  still  sped  your  shaft,"  says 
Miss  Vandeleur  with  a  contempt  so  unrestrained  that  the 
Other  in  spite  of  herself  colours  hotly. 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE,  fi) 

*  I  merely  mentioned  a  passing  fact.  I  do  not  feel  my« 
gelf  called  upon  to  regulate  my  conversation  according  to 
the  fancies  of  my  associates,"  says  she  with  ill-suppressed 
annoyance. 

"  There  is  such  a  thing  as  delicacy  !  "  says  Miss  Vande- 
leur  with  a  touch  of  passionate  reproach.  A  secoad  later 
she  knows  she  has  gone  too  far,  but  for  once  in  her  gentle 
life  she  hardly  regrets  it. 

"  And  you  ? "  says  Mrs.  Coventry.  "  Do  you  always 
remember  ?  My  dear  girl,  let  me  entreat  you  to  give  up 
posing.  It  never  tells.  Tack  on  to  it  another  letter  and  it 
becomes  prosing.  Bores  are  the  pariahs  of  society.  Don't 
classify  yourself  with  them,  I  implore  you — for  your  own 
sake,  merely." 

"  You  are  very  good,"  says  Marian  calmly. 

"As  for  Miss  D'Arcy,  if  I  insinuated  that  she  is  not 
altogether  madly  in  love  with  her  fiance — was  it  so  great  a 
crime  ?  " 

"  That  was  not  the  crime." 

"  Did  she  never  then  give  a  thought  to  Eaton  Stamer?" 

"  Oh  !  not  at  all — not  at  all,"  cries  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  kind, 
but  blind  soul,  striking  into  the  discussion  with  great  energy. 
"  Never  anything  but  friends,  you  know.  Friends  all  their 
lives.  Grew  up  together  almost.  And  we  all  know  that 
such  early  friendships  rarely  ripen  into  love  affairs.  It's  a 
well-known  thing,  isn't  it,  Marian  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  says  Marian  sturdily,  though  her  heart  is  bleeding 
for  her  friend. 

"  I  think  there  is  nothing  so  sweet  as  that  old  lore,"  says 
Mrs.  Coventry  with  an  affectation  of  admiration  that  enrages 
Marian. — "  That  firm  belief  in  the  undeviating  lines  here 
and  there  that  are  supposed  to  move  the  world.  I  wish  I 
had  not  outlived  them  ;  but  I'm  too  old  now,  I'm  afraid,  to 
correct  my  follies.  How  lovely  it  is  to  be  always  young,** 
with  a  smile  at  poor  Mrs.  Vaudrey  who  is  looking  anything 
but  juvenile  in  her  faded  bonnet  and  worn  gown ;  "  to  be 
able  to  cling  to  the  traditions  of  one's  youth  as  you 
can." 

"  I'm  clinging  to  nothing,"  says  Mrs.  Vaudrey  stoutly. 
"  I'm  only  saying  that  I  don't  believe  Evelyn  ever  cared  for 
Eaton  Stamer  in  the  way  you  think  she  did." 

"  Ah,"  says  Mrs.  Coventry,  "  you  are  farther  advanced 
in  jour  opinions  than  Miss  Vandeleur.  She  wavers,  I  think. 


•24  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

Do  you  believe,  Miss  Vandelc-ur,  t'hat  boys  and  girls  wht 
grow  up  together  are  always  bound  to  hate  each  other  ?  " 

"  I  do  so  dislike  this  sort  of  discussion  where  one's  friends 
come  in,"  says  Miss  Vandeleur  with  dignity.  "And  so  I 
am  sure  does  Mrs.  Vaudrey.  We  both  are  very  fond  of 
Evelyn  D'Arcy.  And " 

"  And  so  am  I,"  says  Mrs.  Marjoribanks  with  promptitude 
and  a  sudden  return  to  naturalness,  stirred  by  that  late  attack 
on  her  of  Mrs.  Coventry's.  "  I  think  her  a  perfectly  sweet 
little  thing,  and  I  think  it  a  positive  cruelty  that  any  one 
should  say  a  word  against  her." 

"It  is  a  crusade,"  says  Mrs.  Coventry  pleasantly.  "I 
should  like  to  join  it.  Who  has  been  saying  anything 
against  her.  Pray  let  me  into  the  secret  that  I  too  may  help 
to  annihilate  them." 

Nobody  answers ;  there  ensues  indeed  a  rather  awkward 
silence  that  is  broken  presently  by  a  suspicion  rather  than 
by  a  knowledge  of  some  disturbance  going  on  in  the  hall 
outside. 

"What  can  be  the  matter?"  says  Mrs.  Vaudrey  ner- 
vously. "  Nothing  on  fire.  Eh  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

WELL!  nothing  of  any  great  importance!  Mr.  Wylding* 
Weekes  only  I  But  as  he  explodes  about  once  a  week 
regularly,  no  one  gives  much  heed  to  his  Catherine  wheels. 

It  is  the  usual  thing  !  There  has  been  some  unpleasant- 
ness ;  Mr.  Wylding- Weekes  has  discovered  Mrs.  Wylding- 
Weekes  in  one  of  the  winter  houses  with  a  man  at-her  feet! 
Kissing  her  hands  or  doing  something  or  other  distinctly 
unpleasant  to  a  jealous  husband.  Nothing  quite  transpires, 
but  that  a  denouement  has  been  reached  is  beyond  question ! 

Mr.  Wylding- Weekes  is  making  a  horrid  fuss  !  He  always 
does.  Mrs.  Wylding- Weekes  is  standing  by  doing  the  social 
martyr  to  perfection.  He  and  she  are  now  in  the  hall 
awaiting  the  arrival  of  their  carriage.  The  "  man  "  is  out  of 
view  !  very  cleverly  ! 

The  unwise  have  crowded  on  to  the  door  step  with  the 
intention  of  seeing  the  whole  thing  through — the  wise  have 
held  themselves  aloof.  Some  people  are  laughing.  Some  axe 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  tag 

indignant.  It  Is  always  like  this  with  the  Wylding-Weekes. 
And  they  themselves  never  seem  to  care  "a  little  hang,"  as 
Mr.  Blount  puts  it  poetically,  what  people  think  of  them. 

There  is  a  whisper  going  abroad  that  it  was  Sir  Bertram 
who  had  been  the  delinquent  on  this  occasion.  The  lazy 
Sir  Bertram — the  one  so  difficult  to  move  at  any  time.  The 
idea  gives  a  zest  to  the  entertainment — a  part  of  the  day's 
festivities  not  provided  by  Mr.  Crawford. 

Sir  Bertram,  it  appears,  had  been  with  her — had  taken  her 
to  the  gardens — had  made  quite  a  point  of  taking  her  there. 
There,  where  nobody  else  had  cared  to  venture.  There  is 
a  second  story  afloat  that  drags  into  it  a  new  man  from  the 
barracks  at  Elton.  He  had  arrived  there  about  a  week  ago, 
and  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes  liked  new  men. 

It  is  a  small  blot  on  the  general  conviviality,  and  is  there- 
fore to  be  regretted,  but  people  have  grown  so  accustomed 
to  the  little  ways  of  the  Wylding-Weekes  and  to  their  eccen- 
tricities that  not  much  attention  after  all  is  given  to  it.  Their 
carriage  comes  round  to  the  door.  The  injured  husband 
helps  his  wife  into  it  with  an  air  of  indignant  dignity  that 
sits  very  funnily  upon  his  small  lean  person  ;  the  wife  enters 
it,  with  a  resigned  adieu  to  her  host  and  a  swift  sidelong 
glance  full  of  suppressed  merriment  at  some  one  in  the 
crowd,  and  presently  the  Wylding-Weekes  are  not  only  out 
of  sight,  but  out  of  mind  until  the  next  time. 

"  What  a  little  fool !  "  says  Sir  Bertram  marching  straight 
up  to  Marian  and  speaking  of  the  troublesome  person  who 
has  just  disappeared  up  the  avenue  beside  a  raging  spouse. 
Has  he  heard  that  his  name  has  been  associated  with  hers  ? 

"I  quite  like  her,  you  musn't  abuse  her  to  me,"  says 
Miss  Vandeleur  coldly. 

"  Oh  !  so  do  I  for  the  matter  of  that.  There's  more  folly 
than  harm  in  her ;  but  still " 

"  That  is  quite  true.  And  I  prefer  to  hear  you  taking 
her  part  however  lamely." 

"  Why  ?  "  raising  his  brows. 

"  It  is  the  more  generous  thing  surely." 

"I  can't  see  why  I'm  bound  to  be  generous  to  Mrs. 
Wylding-Weekes — specially.  If  you  mean  that  I  shou'.d 
defend  the  entire  sex,  all  I  can  say  is  that  I  don't  feel  equal 
to  the  task." 

"  Then  don't  undertake  it.     Some  of  us  do  not  require  it." 
1' You  foj  example?"  flinging  away  his  cigar  and  folding 

>  ,  "<•       .  Ift 


*25  A  LIFE'S  REMORSB, 

his  arms  behind  him.  "  You  needn't  read  me  a  lecture  <w 
that.  I  know  you  to  be  not  only  irreproachable,  but  unap- 
proachable. Now  Mrs.  Wylding-Weekes " 

"Is  she  approachable ? "  with  a  faint  disdain. 

"  I  really  don't  know.  She  can  be  civil  certainly.  And 
that's  always  something." 

"  Something  !     A  great  deal  I  think." 

"  Do  you  ?  you  might  practise  what  you  preach  then." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I  am  always  uncivil  ?  " 

"  To  me,  yes.  To  others — I  don't  know  what  you  are  to 
others." 

"You  are  unjust,"  says  she  with  a  slight  touch  of 
vehemence. 

"  Well,  you're  uncivil  now,  aren't  you?  And  unjust  into 
the  bargain.  You  are  accusing  me  of  all  sorts  of  things. 
Don't  deny  it — I  can  read  you  quite  plainly." 

"  I  was  going  to  deny  nothing.  And  how  am  I  unjust  ? 
Is  there  nothing  of  which  you  may  be  accused  ?  " 

"  What  a  leading  question,  and  what  a  tremendous  one. 
Even  you,  immaculate  as  you  are,  is  there  nothing  of  which 
you  might  be  accused  ?  "• 

"  You  play  with  the  question  and  in  so  doing  you  give 
a  truthful  answer  to  it." 

"  You  condemn  me  then — unheard  ?  " 

"  Nonsense ;  /  am  not  your  judge." 

"  Pardon  me.  You  have  constituted  yourself  as  such. 
I  bow  before  you.  I  submit  myself — but  above  all  things  I 
claim  justice.  Now — your  indictment.  Let  me  know  of 
what  you  deem  me  guilty.  I  don't  desire  a  r'esum'e  of  all 
the  vices  of  which  you  believe  me  guilty,  but  just  this  last 
particular  one." 

"Your  vices  I  know  nothing  of— and — they  are  nothing 
to  me." 

"  Nor  my  virtues  either,  I  suppose — believing  me 
generously  to  have  one  or  two." 

"I  hope  you  have  more  than  that." 

"  But  hope  is  so  deceitful.  Is  that  what  you  would  say  ?  " 
He  laughs  a  little.  "  Well,  seating  himself  on  the  parapet 
near,  that  overlooks  the  garden.  "  I'll  tell  you  the  hard 
thought  that  is  in  your  mind  for  me  to-day.  You  heard 
Wylding-Weekes  had  found  me  flirting  with  his  wife  in  one 
of  the  houses." 

"Why  can't  you  leave  that  silly  little  creature  alone?" 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  «2J 

cries  she  flashing  round  at  him.  "  You  don't  care  for  her— 
you  never  could.  She  is  not  suited  to  you,  or  you  to  her, 
and  yet " 

"  I  can  take  the  trouble  to  kiss  her  hand  or  her  foot— or 
—I  really  forget  which  it  was." 

"  It  is  unworthy  of  you ! "  says  she  with  some  vehemence. 
She  turns  aside  and  pulls  away  the  Chantilly  laces  at  her 
throat  as  though  they  are  stifling  her. 

"  It  might  be,  if  I  ever  had  taken  that  trouble.  But  I 
assure  you  I  did  not  go  to  the  gardens  with  Mrs.  Wylding- 
Weekes  at  all.  On  our  way  there — and  I  offered  to  show  the 
houses  to  her  merely  to  oblige  your  friend  Miss  D'Arcy— 
we  fortunately  fell  in  with  that  Deptford — new  man — over 
there,  you  know,"  pointing  to  where  presumably  the  barracks 
in  the  next  town  lies.  "  And  he  took  her  off  my  hands.  I 
had  the  mortification  of  seeing  that  she  was  unfeignedly  glad 
to  get  rid  of  me.  She  quite  fawned  on  Deptford  with  a  view 
to  throwing  me  over ;  the  backseat  was  undoubtedly  mine,  so 
after  a  decent  excuse  or  two,  I  beat  an  ignominious  retreat." 

A  long  silence. 

"  Well ! "  says  he  at  last  in  an  unmistakably  triumphant 
tone.  If  he  had  hoped  that  he  had  scored  one  he  is  lament- 
ably mistaken ;  Miss  Vandeleur  turns  her  face  to  his,  but 
instead  of  contrition  he  is  compelled  to  read  indignation  in 
her  eyes. 

"And  you  knew  what  I  meant  all  along.  And  never 
told  me.  And  you  let  me  say  all  sorts  of  things  to  you. 
You  let  me  accuse  you — when  you  knew  a  word  would  have 
changed  all.  You  wilfully  put  me  in  the  wrong !  Oh,  it 
was  shameful  of  you." 

"  Good  heavens  1  Am  I  still  the  offending  party  ?  I  had 
believed  myself  the  injured  one,  and  now " 

"  What  on  earth  can  be  keeping  the  carriage  ?  "  says  Miss 
Vandeleur  sweeping  past  him  as  though  he  is  invisible. 

Her  mood  changes  when  a  few  minutes  later  she  meets 
Evelyn,  who  is  just  leaving  with  the  colonel  and  Mrs.  D'Arcy. 
A  very  pale  Evelyn — but  quite  composed  now,  and  calm 
and  indifferent — too  indifferent,  thinks  Marian. 

'*  Good-bye,  Evelyn."  She  takes  the  girl's  hand  and  holds 
it  closely.  "  Tell  me,"  rather  nervously — a  little  unsettled 
by  Evelyn's  clear  steady  gaze.  "To-morrow — will  you 
come  to  me  ?  or  shall  I — would  you  like  me  to  come  to 
youf'J 


«Z9  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

"Not  to-morrow,"  says  Evelyn,  shaking  her  head  with 
quite  an  every-day  smile.  "  I  am  going  to  give  myself  a 
delightful  day  to-morrow.  I  have  accepted  an  invitation 
from  myself,  and  I  must  not  break  it.  Bad  manners  not 
permissible.  It  is  quite  a  royal  mandate  that  has  been  sent 
me,  I  dare  not  disobey.  I  am  going  for  a  long — long- 
long  walk  into  the  leafless  woods." 

"A dreary  invitation  surely,"  with  a  wistful  glance  at  her. 
The  girl's  gaiety,  though  well  done  and  seemingly  unforced, 
does  not  deceive  her.  "  You  will  take  Jimmy  with  you,  or 
one  of  the  children — or,"  hesitating,  "me;  I  should  like 
to  go." 

"  How  can  I  take  you  ?  "  laughing.  "  The  invitation  is 
for  myself  alone;  I  should  not  presume  to  bring  even  the 
dearest  friend  I  have — and  that,"  with  a  little  playful 
pressure  on  her  arm,  "is  you.  No;  to-morrow  is  given 
away." 

"  Well,"  says  Miss  Vandeleur  with  a  sigh.  Some  other 
words  might  have  escaped  her,  but  the  determined  smile 
oa  Evdyu's  lips  checks  her.  "Good-bye,"  says  sjie  again* 


SURELY  there  never  dawned  a  day  so  dull  as  this.  Grey 
sky,  brown  earth  and  naked  trees.  No  stir  of  life  any- 
where. 

Evelyn  going  for  that  "long,  long,  long  walk"  to  which 
she  is  self-invited,  and  to  which  she  hurries  lest  any  small 
duty  amongst  the  daily  round  of  them  may  arise  and  call 
on  her  to  remain  £*  home,  finds  herself  at  about  noontide 
entering  the  dark  woods  of  Grange. 

There  is  no  fear  that  she  will  meet  its  master  here ;  no 
fear  that  she  will  meet — anybody.  It  is  the  most  secluded, 
the  least  cared  for  part  that  she  has  chosen,  in  which  to 
while  away  this  most  hateful  of  all  days.  She  had  been,  if 
quiet,  entirely  cheerful  all  the  morning,  and  ao  cms  had 
guessed  at  the  perfect  frenzy  of  impatience  that  was  hers, 
until  the  gate  of  Firgrove  had  closed  behind  her,  and  she 
found  herself  comparatively  lost  in  the  dkn  recesses  of  the 
solitary  wood 

It  is  a  melancholy  spot  at  the  best  of  times,  this  corue3 


A  LITE'S  EEMOESE.  229 

of  Grange;  even  in  the  hot  and- glowing  summer,  shadow* 
linger  her* ;  no  bursts  of  sunlight  darting  through  the  heavy 
trees  make  golden  patches  on  the  sward  beneath :  a 
sodden  sward,  where  vegetation  grows  but  slowly,  and 
always  with  a  dying  life  in  it.  To-day  it  is  inexpressibly 
dreary  ;  deserted — lonely — hopeless — in  very  unison  with 
her  own  thoughts  and  fancies. 

*  Here  weep  the  dews  and  winds  of  winter  blow); 
The  soft  breeze  rustles  in  the  bending  grass; 
The  'cold  rain  falls  here,  and  the  drifting  snow- 
But  tears  fall  not,  nor  lovers'  footsteps  pass." 

Somewhere  in  the  distance  the  mad  and  mournful  roar 
of  the  cataract  may  be  heard,  swollen  by  last  week's  rains* 
Its  noisy  tumult  seems  to  Evelyn  full  of  angry  pain,  full  of 
despairing  passion,  full  of  revolt. 

The  river  down  below  is  swollen  too,  and  now  runs  flush 
with  its  banks.  It  runs  with  her  thoughts,  she  tells  herself, 
standing  on  a  high  knoll  and  gazing  down  on  it  with  large 
sad  eyes.  How  it  rushes  !  with  what  an  eager  hurry,  as  if 
to  get  rid  of  itself  and  fling  itself  for  all  time  into  its  ocean 
ef  eternity  I  Oh  !  that  she  too  might  so  swiftly  and  so 
easily  gain  the  end  of  all  things — that  death  from  which  so 
many  shrink,  and  which  \fter  all  is  the  kindest  friend  we 
have. 

How  cold  the  river  looks !  How  full  of  purpose.  I« 
what  a  mad  haste  to  leave  its  past  behind  it.  Has  it  s« 
hated  then  its  shallows  farther  up,  and  the  wide  delicate 
reaches,  where  the  rushes  show  their  brown  heads  above 
the  water,  close  to  the  bank.  How  calm  a  life  it  must 
have  had  all  through  the  smiling  summer ;  so  calm  that  now, 
when  winter  is  upon  it,  and  cruel  rains  and  drifting  snows 
have  descended  on  it,  and  proved  too  much  for  it,  it  has 
risen  in  protest,  and  gathering  together  all  its  strength,  has 
given  up  hope,  and  seeks  oblivion  only  in  the  wide  sea 
beyond  that  bar. 

Poor  river !  Its  troubles  have  been  too  much  for  it  I 
It  seems  to  have  lost  all  control  over  itself.  And  bow 
dark,  how  deep  it  is. 

**  Deep  as  love, 

Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret ; 
O  death  in  life,  the  days  that  are  no  more." 

The  words  ring  in  her  ears  I    "The  days  that  are  no 


939  A  LIFE'S  EEMORSE. 

more!"  That  have  beent  but  can  never  be ;  again."  They 
are  done  with — cast  aside — dead.  "  Death  in  Life  ! "  Yet 
she  must  go  on  living.  Not  only  that,  but  she  must  learn 
to  adapt  her  ways  to  her  husband's  ways.  She  must  learn 
to  think  of  him,  and  him  only. 

Well  1  Why  not  ?  why  not  ?  Is  he  not  worthy  of  all 
thought  ?  Many  women  have  been  condemned  to  marry 
men  despicable  in  their  eyes.  But  for  her  all  that  is 
different.  With  a  strong  determination  she  calls  to  light 
Crawford's  gentle  air,  his  deeds  of  charity,  so  unosten- 
tatiously displayed.  His  kindness.  His  goodness  to  the 
children  who  are  to  her  as  brothers  and  as  sisters.  His 
loving  care  for  her.  The  extreme  humbleness  that  char- 
acterizes his  every  action.  His  unmistakable  disregard  for 
the  wealth  that  makes  him  without  his  will  a  person  of 
importance.  Do  not  all  these  things  make  him  mightier 
than  his  fellows  ?  Surely  she  is  a  fortunate  girl,  that  one 
so  faultless  should  have  chosen  her  from  out  the  whole  wide 
world  to  love  and  cherish. 

She  has  worked  herself,  as  she  hopes  and  believes,  into 
a  proper  frame  of  mind ;  she  has  brought  the  glow  of 
admiration  to  her  cheek ;  she  seems  to  herself  filled  with 
an  honest  appreciation  of  Mr.  Crawford's  excellences, 
and 

And  all  at  once  she  finds  herself  where  she  began.  Oh ! 
Mother  Nature,  who  shall  conquer  thee  !  In  a  flash  as  it 
were  the  face  of  Eaton  Stamer  rises  before  her,  ill-tem- 
pered, frowning,  as  when  last  she  saw  it,  but  to  her,  alas  1 
the  dearest  face  on  earth.  . 

She  covers  her  eyes  with  her  hands,  and  presses  her 
fingers  against  them  despairingly,  as  though  bent  on  killing 
that  sweet  forbidden  memory. 

A  faint  rustle  in  the  straggling  grasses— a  stir  in  the  dried 
leaves !  ,  Her  hands  fall  to  her  sides,  and  she  finds  herself 
looking  at  the  real  Eaton — the  original  of  the  vision  that 
has  been  tormenting  her.  Is  he  real  ?  or  a  fresh  torture  ? 
Oh !  how  has  he  found  his  way  here — here  of  all  places 
where  she  believed  herself  secure  ? 

It  is  hardly  the  Eaton  of  her  everyday  life.  What  has 
happened  to  him  ?  He  is  pale,  haggard,  stern. 

"  Well !  "  says  he  thrusting  aside  a  bramble  with  a  force 
hardly  necessary,  and  coming  straight  up  to  her. 

A  horrible  fear  that  she  is  going  to  faint,  has  for  the 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  »3l 

moment  smitten  her;  she  recovers  herself,  however,  and 
hardly  knowing  what  she  does,  goes  mechanically  forward 
and  holds  out  her  hand  to  him  in  ordinary  greeting.  He 
flings  it  aside. 

"  What's  this  you've  done  ?  "  demands  he  roughly. 

"  I  don't  understand,"  returns  she  faintly,  though  she  is 
growing  more  herself  already ;  that  very  roughness  of  his, 
has  helped  to  restore  her  courage.  Her  late  weakness, 
however,  is  exemplified  by  her  answer  to  his  attack.  It  has 
left  him  an  open  road. 

"  Don't  you ?"  says  he  vehemently.  "Then  I'll  explain 
it  to  you.  You  have  engaged  yourself  to — you  have  pro- 
mised to  marry — a  man  for  whom  you  entertain  no  smallest 
spark  of  affection.  You  have  flung  aside  all  honour,  all 
honesty,  all  womanliness,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  filthy 
dross  of  this  life  have  consented  to  sacrifice  yourself,  soul 
and  body  1 " 

"  Surely — surely  you  don't  know  what  you  are  saying," 
says  she  striving  to  be  calm,  whilst  carried  away  by  the 
storm  of  his  passion.  "  You  must  be  mad  to  talk  to  me 
like  this  !  Why  should  you  judge  me  so  ?  Why  think  so 
vilely  of  me  ?  I  am  not  angry,  Eaton,"  her  right  hand 
tightening  convulsively  in  a  fold  of  her  gown — her  breath 
coming  with  difficulty.  "  You  are  not  quite  yourself  to-day, 
are  you  ?  " 

" No — not  quite,"  says  he.  "I  am  glad  you  understand 
so  much  at  least." 

"  Well,  it  is  difficult  to  understand,"  answers  she  coldly,  a 
long  heavy  sigh  having  given  her  some  relief.  "  Why 
should  I  not  marry  Mr.  Crawford — or  any  one  else  I 
choose  ?  " 

"  Confine  yourself  to  Mr.  Crawford,  please.  You  have 
no  right  to  marry  him,  at  all  events." 

"  No  ?  "  says  she  ;  "  and  why  ?  " 

"We  both  know  that.  The  answer  to  it  is  as  well  known 
to  you  as  to  me.  In  that  we  agree  if  we  have  nothing  else 
in  common." 

"  I  never  guessed  a  riddle  in  my  life,"  says  she  with  a 
pale  smile. 

"  Must  I  explain  again,  then  ?  go  over  the  old  ground  ? 
You  used  not  to  be  so  dull,  but  if " 

"  No,  no,"  putting  up  a  warning  hand.  "  If  you  would 
repeat  yourself,  I  refuse  to  hear.  And  "—turning  upon  him 


*j*  A  LIFE'S  KEHORSE. 

with  a  sudden  glow  of  anger — "  what  do  you  mean  by 
coming  here  to-day  and  talking  to  me  like  this  ?  What  are 
you  to  me,  or  I  to  you  ?  Are  you  my  conscience  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  am  to  you,  but  I  know  what  you 
are  to  me,  and  you — know  it  too." 

"  I  know  nothing,"  says  she  icily.  The  memory  of  that 
last  day  when  he  had  come  to  her,  and  had  spent  his  last  hours 
in  trivial  altercation,  comes  to  her  and  sustains  her.  He 
might  have  spoken  and  he  didn't.  "You  come  here  to- 
day upbraiding  me.  For  what  ?  For  promising  to  marry  the 
kindest,  gentlest  man  I  have  ever  known  1 "  A  little  sob 
chokes  her  for  a  moment,  but  she  conquers  it.  "  What  right 
have_>'0#  to  censure  me,  even  were  censure  due  ?  " 

"  The  one  great  right  of  all.  I  love  you  ! "  He  is  very 
pale  as  he  says  this,  but  he  makes  no  movement  towards 
her.  There  is  passion  in  his  gaze,  but  unconquerable 
resentment  too. 

"  Ah  !  you  should  have  said  that  sooner,"  cries  she  with 
a  little  violent  laugh.  A  thrill  of  exquisite  pain  is  render- 
ing every  limb  almost  lifeless,  but  the  brain  endures.  "  You 
are  too  late  now.  And  do  you  think  I  will  believe  you  ?  " 
cries  she,  taking  a  fierce  step  forward.  "  Now — now  to 
believe  you.  Oh,  no,  no,  no  ! "  She  pauses  and  passes 
her  hand  languidly  across  her  brow ;  the  first  violence  of 
her  grief  is  past.  "  You  should  have  said  that  sooner,  or  left 
it  alone  altogether,"  says  she,  with  a  suggestion  of  numbness. 
"  I  don't  believe  it  now.  I  don't  indeed.  There  was  so 

much  time  before,  and  yet "  she  sighs.     "  You  did  not 

think  of  me  when  I  was  free,  and  now — now  you  come  here 
to  annoy — to  insult  me." 

*'  To  insult  you,  Evelyn  ?  If  the  truth  is  an  insult  it  lies 
before  you.  But  why  should  it  be  ?  As  for  your  suggestion 

that  I  did  not  think  of  you "  he  breaks  off  suddenly  as 

if  trying  to  control  himself.    "  Well,  I  leave  that  to  yourself." 

"  Then  I  refuse  to  have  it  so  left,"  cries  she  passionately. 
"  You — you  speak  of  your  love  for  me,  and  yet  on  that  day 
on  which  we  parted,  when  you  knew  you  were  going  away 
for  weeks  and  weeks,  what  did  you  say  of  love  then  ?  You 
came>  you  saw  me  lying  ill  and  in  pain,  and  how  did  you 
treat  me  ?  Not  one  word  of  love,  or  sympathy  even.  You 
were  cold,  cruel,  indifferent !  You  knew  you  were  parting 
from  me  for  a  long,  long  time ;  surely  that  was  a  time  to  say 
•U  that  might  be  iu  one's  heart,  but  you — said  coining. 


A  LIFE'S  REMtmaa.  «3J 

Nothing  was  there,  perhaps.  And  now — when  I  am 

betrothed  to  another  man,  you  come  back,  and .  How  " 

j— -breaking  off  abruptly,  and  regarding  him  with  scornful 
eyes — "  how  am  I  to  think  of  it  all  ?  " 

"You  pretend  to  blame  me,  yet  am  I  to  be  blamed?" 
says  he.  "  That  day — how  could  I  say  what  I  had  come  to 
say?  Believe  me  or  not  as  you  will,  but  I  started  that 
morning  with  but  one  desire  in  my  heart — to  ask  you  to  be 
my  wife  1 " 

"  I  won't  believe  you  1 "  cries  she  sharply,  wincing  as  if 
rirom  a  blow. 

"  Of  course  you  won't  believe  me — that  is  part  of  the 
scheme,"  says  he  rudely.  "  But  it  ts  so,  for  all  that.  I  was 
going  away.  I  felt  as  if  I  could  not  go  until  I  had  a  word 
from  you,  and  when  I  came,  how  was  it  with  you?  In  tears 
for  Crawford  ! "  bitterly.  "  I  say  one  word  against  that  im- 
maculate person,  and  behold  you  up  in  arms  for  Crawford. 
It  was  Crawford,  Crawford,  Crawford  all  through  1  I  could 
not  speak,  and  yet,"  with  rising  reproach  that  is  so  full  of 
despair  as  to  make  it  eloquent,  "you  must  have  known! 
You  did  know  ;  and  knowing,  you  deliberately  deceived 
me!" 

"  Take  care  ! "  says  she  slowly,  with  a  dull  but  heavy 
concentration.  "  One  can  go  too  far." 

"  You  have,"  says  he  recklessly.  "  And  for  the  rest,  I 
don't  care  how  far  I  go.  I'll  have  it  out  with  you  now  and 
be  done  with  it.  For  me  there  are  no  consequences — our 
friendship,  such  as  it  was,  ends  to  day." 

"You are  a  coward,"  says  she  breathlessly.  "You  think 
only  of  yourself.  Your  own  feelings  are  all  that  concern 
you." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  says  he,  with  a  strange  smile.  "  My  feelings 
are  the  only  ones  concerned  in  this  affair.  As  for  you— 
you  have  none  ! " 

Evelyn,  raising  her  large  eyes,  for  the  first  time  to-da/, 
looks  steadily  at  him. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

"You  are  wrong,"  says  she  gently. 

"  Am  I  ?     I  think  not.     It  is  a  popular  delusion  that  onft 
can't  liw  without  a  heart — the  vital  organ,  you  know — the 


«34  A  LIFE'S  EEMORSE. 

one  thing  necessary  to  life — but  that  is  all  mere  fofiy !  Yon 
haven't  a  heart  of  even  the  poorest  description,  yet  you  get 
through  the  world  as  well — oh  !  better — than  most  of  us." 

"  You  throw  yourself  away,"  says  she  icily,  yet  smiling 
all  the  time.  "  You  are  apparently  a  thought-reader  before 
whom  the  rest  of  that  clever  lot  might  well  quail.  How 
deeply  you  must  have  studied  me  to  understand  me  so 
entirely  !  In  truth,  I  envy  you  your  prescience." 

"  Well,  I  don't  envy  you  I "  says  he  ruthlessly.  "  You 

would  make  light  of  my  accusations,  but .  Come,  now, 

Evelyn  I "  advancing  towards  her,  and  grasping  her  hand 
with  a  rude  determination,  and  compelling  her  body,  at  least 
— although  not  her  eyes — to  face  his.  "  To  get  back  to  our 
first  argument.  You  will  swear  to  your  verity  of  soul,  won't 
you  ?  And  yet  on  that  last  day  of  ours,  to  which  you  cling 
as  being  damnatory  evidence  against  me — what  of  -that 
day  ?  Did  you  not  then  and  there  declare  to  me  that  you 
would  never  marry  Crawford  ?  " 

"/said  that?" 

"  You,  and  no  other.  Do  you  think  I  am  likely  to  forget  ? 
Why,  I  built  on  that  the  Spanish  castle  that  has  failed  me. 
On  that  day  I  said  to  you  I  was  convinced  you  would  never 
marry  Crawford,  and  you — you  said .  Pshaw,"  impa- 
tiently, "  I  forget  the  exact  words,  but  at  all  events,  I  remem- 
ber only  too  clearly  what  you  meant.  I  said,"  pausing  as  if 
to  force  remembrance,  "  that  I  believed  you  would  not  marry 
him,  and  you,"  pausing  again,  "  gave  me  this  answer,  '  An 
easy  belief.'  Yes ;  those  were  the  words.  Light  ones  to 
you,  no  doubt,  but  false — false  as  hell." 

"  Not  false  when  uttered,"  says  Evelyn  eagerly.  "  Why 
do  you  seek  to  lower  me  ?  When  I  said  that  to  you  I  had 
no  idea  of  marrying  Mr.  Crawford.  Why,  you  must  believe 
that,"  with  growing  agitation.  "  Amongst  all  the  other  stor- 
ages of  your  memory,  amongst  all  the  evidence  you  have 
so  carefully  collected  for  my  undoing,  you  must  recollect 
that  just  before  you  arrived  on  that  day  I  had  refused  Mr. 
Crawford." 

"So  you  told  me,"  contemptuously.  "And  yet,  one 
month  afterwards,  all  the  world  hears  that  you  are  engaged 
to  him.  All,"  bitterly,  "  save  me,  I  was  purposely  kept  in 
the  dark." 

She  makes  a  gesture  as  though  she  would  have  spoken, 
but  he  interrupt*  hex. 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  tjj 

w  How  well,  now,  I  can  Interpret  those  tears,"  says  he, 
with  a  mocking  laugh.  "  Whatever  else  was  false,  I  believe 
them  to  have  been  genuine.  It  could  not  have  been  an 
altogether  happy  experience — the  accepting  of  a  man  old 
enough  to  be  your  father.  Youth — honest  youth — seeks 
youth." 

"  You  give  me  the  lie,  then,"  says  she,  her  face  very  white. 
"  You  think  I  concealed  the  truth  that  day.  You  accuse  me 
of  direct  falsehood  ?  " 

"  I  accuse  you  of  nothing.  As  you  yourself  just  now 
reminded  me,  I  have  no  right  to  praise  or  blame." 

"  To  wilfully  destroy  an  old  friendship,"  says  she,  in  a 
clear  tone  that  should  have  warned  him,  but  fails,  "is  a 
thing  from  which  most  people  shrink.  You  are  apparently 
superior  to  such  weaknesses." 

"  As  for  that,"  says  he,  "  I  am  no  longer  your  friend." 

"  Ah  !  that  makes  it  easier,"  says  she  quickly. 

"  Naturally !  I  can  quite  understand  your  view  of  it 
Throw  over  any  ancient  feeling  you  may  have  entertained 
for  me,  I  entreat  you,  and  forget  you  ever  felt  it.  I  do  not 
plead  on  friendship's  lines — I  have  no  faith  in  friendship. 
It  is  a  fraud — a  sentiment.  I  merely  protest  against  the 
treatment  to  which  I  have  been  subjected — no  more." 

"  What  treatment  ?  " 

"  Well,  for  one  thing,"  cries  he,  bursting  out  into  a  storm 
of  passion  and  flinging  aside  as  though  it  is  no  longer  pos- 
sible to  hide  himself  behind  it  the  cloak  of  scorn  with  which 
he  has  been  dallying,  "why  was  I  kept  in  ignorance  all 
this  time  ?  "  It  is  the  first  grievance — the  most  terrible — 
the  most  fatal.  If  he  had  known  he  might  have  come  to 
her — have  pleaded,  entreated — and  not  perhaps  in  vain. 
It  is  the  secrecy  that  has  been  the  final  thrust  of  the  dagger 
in  a  wound  already  mortal.  "  Why  did  nobody  write  and 
tell  me  ?  Why  was  I,  of  all  people,  alone  left  in  the  dark  ? 
Only  last  week  my  mother  wrote  and  told  me  of  a  fact  that 
had  been  known  to  the  entire  neighbourhood  for  over  a 
month.  '  A  desirable  match,'  she  called  it.  So  you  call  it, 
too,  no  doubt."  He  pauses,  as  if  waiting  for  her  to  answer 
him,  but  no  words  fall  from  her  pale  lips.  "  A  most  damn- 
able match,  /call  it," says  he  hotly. 

She  turns  away  as  if  to  leave  him,  but  he  places  himself 
in  her  path  and  compels  her  to  remain. 

"  Not  yet    You  shall  not  go  yet     It  is  our  last  meeting," 


t30  A  LIFE'S  .REMORSE. 

says  he.  M  Do  not  grudge  me  a  moment  or  two."  He  laughs 
^ontemptuously.  "  What  a  lovers'  meeting  !  Well,  never 
mind.  You  have  your  other  lover  now." 

"  What  is  it  you  would  know  ?  "  says  she  desperately,  yet 
with  that  touch  of  dignity  that  has  supported  and  beautified 
her  all  through.  "  Ask  me  and  I  will  answer.  I  must  soon 
go  home." 

"  You  know,"  says  he.     "  Why  was  not  I  told  ?  " 

"  Where  lay  the  necessity  that  you  should  be  told  ?  Why 
you,  above  all  others  ?  I  don't  suppose  the  world  generally 
was  made  acquainted  with  the  fact  of  my  engagement. 
Then  why  you  ?  " 

"Great  heaven!"  says  he,  laying  his  hands  suddenly 
upon  her  shoulders  and  forcing  her  to  meet  his  gaze.  "  Who 
could  have  thought  that  a  little  unsophisticated  thing  like 
you  could  have  been  so  false — so  worldly !  How  dare  you 
talk  to  me  like  that ! "  Almost  unconsciously  he  shakes  her 
slight  form  to  and  fro  beneath  his  grasp,  but,  except  for  the 
deepening  of  the  pallor  round  her  lips,  she  gives  no  sign. 
"  You,  who  know  how  I  love  you  ! " 

"  Oh  !  no,  no,"  cries  she,  almost  violently,  as  if  warding 
off  some  terrible  thing.  As  she  speaks  she  moves  resolutely, 
and  shakes  her  shoulders  from  beneath  his  grasp.  "  I  never 
thought " 

"  Thought !  You  knew  !  "  sternly.  "  You  knew,  too,  that 
I  believed  in  you.  Your  very  silence  about  this  \vreiched 
engagement  condemns  you.  Oh !  Evelyn,  that  you  of  all 
people  should  count  money  before  love." 

"  How  terribly  unjust  you  are,"  says  she,  with  a  tremulous 
gesture.  "Surely  your  mother,  when  giving  you  the 
news  of  my  engagement,  told  you,  too,  some — some  of  the 
reasons  for  it  ?  she  told  you  the  truth  about  it — what 
actually  led  to  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  truth  !  There  is  not  a  scrap  of  truth  about  it 
from  beginning  to  end.  It  is  falsity  itself." 

She  turns  away  from  him,  as  though  giving  up  argument, 
in  a  little  heartbroken  way  that  chills  him,  yet  somehow 
adds  to  his  anger  against  her.  Is  this  a  fresh  wile  ?  And 
yet,  can  one  compel  nature  ?  Can  the  cheek  whiten  so  at 
will?  How  very  white  she  is,  and  is  she  slighter,  more 
fragjle  than  she  used  to  be  ? 

"*You  are  looking  ill,"  says  he ;  "out  of  spirits,  too.  This 
•money,  then,  has  not  sufficed  you  ?  " 


A  LIFE'S  KEMORSE.  *37 

wAre  you  inhuman?"  cries  she  suddenly.  Her  large 
eyes,  so  much  larger  than  they  used  to  be,  as  it  seems  to 
him,  or  is  it  that  her  face  is  smaller — thinner  ?  "  You  know, 
you  must  know  " — throwing  out  her  hands  in  a  little  agonized 
fashion — "  they  have  told  you,  I'm  sure,  how  it  is  with  me, 
and  yet  you  would  force  me  to  put  it  into  words." 

"I  wouldn't  have  you  distress  yourself,  certainly,"  says 
he,  with  tardy  and  very  ungracious  compunction,  but  she 
hardly  seems  to  hear  him. 

"  If  the  colonel  had  not  been  in  such  sore  straits,  if — if  ruin 
had  not  threatened  us,  and  if,"  mournfully,  "  Mr.  Crawford 
had  not  come  to  our  rescue,  I  might " — she  hesitates,  and 
then  goes  on — "  I  confess  it  to  you  " — lifting  her  heavy  eyes 
to  his — "  I  might  never  have  thought  of  this  marriage.  But 
he  came,  and  he  was  so  good  to  us — so  glad  to  be  of  use, 
without  any  thought  of  a  recompense,  that  I  was  glad  to  be 
able  to  give  him  something  in  return." 

"  Something  !  One  is  bound  to  congratulate  him  upon 
his  bargain.  Certainly  he  has  got  the  best  of  it." 

"You  must  not,  however,  think,"  goes  on  she  calmly, 
ignoring  his  last  remark,  "  that  I  have  any  feeling  but  real 
honest  liking  for  Mr.  Crawford,  or  that  I " — tightening  her 
hand  somewhat  upon  the  branch  of  the  tree  against  which 
she  is  leaning,  but  never  once  removing  her  unfriendly  eyes 
from  his — "am  seeking  to  explain  this  matter  to  you,  or 
excusing  to  you  my  acceptance  of  Mr.  Crawford.  I  like  him 
—I  respect  him " 

"  And  he  is  a  very  rich  man.     I  quite  see." 

"  He  is,  at  all  events,  the  best  man  I  have  ever  met," 
pays  she,  calmly  still,  and  as  if  determined  to  treat  him  with 
the  contempt  she  knows  she  ought  to  feel  for  him. 

"  And  you  have  met  so  many,"  says  he,  with  a  short  un- 
inirthful  laugh. 

"  I  have  met  enough  to  teach  me  who  is,  and  who  is  not, 
worthy  of  regard.  One  need  not  know  the  whole  world  to 
learn  that  I  Half-a-dozen  people  are  sufficient  to  give  one 
a  full  insight  into  the  principal  faults  and  virtues  of 
humanity,"  says  this  little  sage  with  the  sore  heart.  She 
delivers  her  text  uncompromisingly,  and  as  if  she  defies  him 
to  contradict  it. 

To  her  just  now,  life  indeed  seems  limited,  maimed — a 
poor  affair  enough,  taking  it  all  together.  So  much  to  lose  in 
:;  and  yet  so  little  to  gain.  This  is  the  problem  that  perplexes 


838  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

her  by  its  seeming  unfairness,  and  renders  her  a  prey  to  that 
dull  despair  that  comes  to  us  all  now  and  again  during  our 
journey  through  this  world. 

All  her  thoughts  are  out  of  drawing  to-day.  There  is 
nothing  pleasant  on  which  their  eyes  may  rest.  The  fore- 
ground is  but  a  distorted  misery ;  the  background,  a  blank. 

"  And  he  is  tlfc  immaculate  one.  I  hope  he'll  prove  so. 
Well,  it  is  your  own  affair,  of  course ;  and,  for  the  future, 
you  can  go  your  way  and  I  can  go  mine." 

"  The  first  truism  you  have  uttered  to-day,"  says  she,  with 
that  new  air  of  indifference  that  almost  amounts  to  con- 
tempt that  he  has  found  so  irritating. 

"  Not  the  last,  however.  I'll  give  you  another.  You 
speak  of  this  coming  marriage  of  yours  with  a  brave  air,  and 
of  Crawford  as  though  he  were  the  one  man  en  earth.  A1J 
that  is  very  clever,  no  doubt,  but  you  dont  deceive  any- 
body by  it.  You  will  marry  him,  of  course,  but  you  won't  be 
able  to  forget  one  thing." 

"  Yes  ?  "  questions  she,  in  a  low  tone,  but  looking  straight 
at  him. 

"  That  he  bought  you  /    For  that's  what  it  comes  to." 

"Eaton!" 

"  Ah,  you  don't  like  the  sound  of  it !  But  console  your« 
self;  it  is  a  very  common  occurrence.  It  is  done  every  day. 
I  suppose  Crawford  knows  what  he  is  about.  He  can't  be 
doing  it  with  blinded  eyes,  and  yet  I  pity  him  too — from 
Biy  soul  I  do." 

"Go  on,"  says  she  hoarsely.  "  If  you  have  anything  more 
to  say,  say  it,  and  be  done  for  ever.  It  is  the  last  chance 
you  will  ever  have." 

"  I  know  that.  This  is  the  last  time  I  shall  ever  willingly 
look  upon  your  face  again.  The  Evelyn  I  loved  was  not 
you,  therefore  am  I  well  quit  of  you." 

"  After  all,"  says  she,  with  a  little  pale  smile,  "  you  need 
not  congratulate  yourself  so  energetically.  There  was  nevel 
a  time — was  there  ? — when  you  were  not  quit  of  me.  Did 
I  ever  belong  to  you  in  any  way?  I  think  not." 

"  You  are  right,"  says  he.  "  I  had  a  dream  of  some  one, 
but  it  was  the  wildest  dreaming.  She  never  existed.  I 
suppose  I  gave  poor  human  nature  too  much  credit.  I 
believed  she  could  create  a  perfect  creature,  and  she  has 
scoffed  at  my  belief.  However " — with  a  touch  of  satisfaction 
.that  is  yet  full  of  sorrow — "  if  I  have  fathomed  your  shallow 


A  LIFE'S.  REMORSE.  a# 

nature,  he,  T  suppose,  has  not.  His  punishment  is  to  come. 
Vou  have  flung  me  over,  but  he — he  has  got  to  live  his  life 
with  you.  He  will  find  you  out  in  time — as  I  have.  You 
have  deceived  me — you  will  deceive  him.  More"— 
passionately — "you  are  deceiving  him  !" 

"  I  am  not  I "  in  a  low  but  vehement  tone. 

"  You  say  that ! " 

"  Certainly  I  do." 

"  You  are  prepared,  then,  to  assure  me  that  you * 

u  I  am  prepared  to  assure  you  nothing.  I  refuse  to 
vindicate  my  conduct  to  you  in  any  way." 

"  Why,  that  is  the  oldest  artifice  in  the  world,"  says  he. 
"  To  stand  on  one's  dignity  and  so  decline  to  refute  the 
charge  that  cannot  be  refuted.  You  might  surely  do  some- 
thing better  than  that.  Now  here  is  a  crucial  test.  Answer 
me  this  ?  Do  you  love  Crawford  ?  Ah  !  You  will  give 
me  no  reply  to  that.  You  know  you  don't.  Silence  is  the 
better  part  I  Lying,  I  see,  has  not  as  yet  come  easy  to 
you," 

The  girl  turns  imperiously  to  him,  her  eyes  aflame,  her 
slender  figure  rigid  in  her  anger. 

"  Go  I "  says  she  in  a  clear  sweet  voice  that  cuts  him  like 
a  knife,  so  cold  it  is — so  final.  Then,  as  if  finding  it  intoler- 
able to  her  to  look  at  him  for  even  so  short  a  time  as  may 
elapse  between  her  dismissal  and  his  going,  she  moves 
swiftly  from  him,  runs  down  the  high  bank  that  leads  to  the 
waterfall,  and  is  presently  lost  to  sight  amongst  the  heavy 
underwood  below. 


CHAPTER  XLVT.1 

EATON'S  walk  home  is  a  rapid  one,  and  his  entry  into  his 
mother's  boudoir  can  hardly  be  called  tranquil.  It  is  mid- 
day, and  the  crisp  November  sun  is  trying  with  all  its  might 
to  put  out  the  glowing  fire  upon  the  hearth.  Lady  Stamer 
bending  over  her  davenport,  where  she  is  endeavouring  to 
get  through  the  answers  to  the  piles  of  fashionable  letters 
that  lie  on  her  right  hand,  looks  up  at  him  with  an  annoyed 
frown. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  says  the  young  man  shortly. 

*  I  am  afraid  you  will  have  to  put  it  off  till  this  evening, 


240  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

I'm  up  to  my  eyes  in  business.  Nothing  very  important;  1 
suppose  ?  " 

"  Very  important,"  more  shortly  still.  Lady  Stamer,  scent- 
ing battle  in  the  breeze,  puts  on  her  armour.  Her  chilliest 
expression  covers  her  face  instantly. 

"  Even  so,  I  must  ask  you  to  wait.  And  really,  Eaton, 
I  must  protest  against  your  habit  of  entering  a  room  in 
this  boisterous  fashion.  A  schoolboy  might  be  excused  for 
so  doing — but  you " 

"  I  am  sorry,  but  I  must  ask  you  to  give  me  five  minutes 
at  once,"  says  he  taking  no  heed  of  her  trivial  querulity, 
and  throwing  up  his  head  with  that  little  gesture  of  com- 
mand inherited  from  his  father — and  that  is  so  hateful  to 
her.  "  Your  correspondence,"  with  a  slow  and  contemp- 
tuous glance  at  her  pile  of  letters,  "  can  wait  so  long,  I  dare- 
say— of  vital  interest  though  they  doubtless  are." 

"You  are  very  rude,"  says  his  mother  calmly.  "But  one 
understands  that  there  is  only  that  to  be  expected  of  you. 
In  these  days  a  mother  succumbs  to  her  children.  I  suc- 
cumb to  you.  Now — for  your  mighty  intelligence." 

She  laughs  angrily,  and  throwing  herself  back  in  her  chair 
and  her  pen  into  an  ormolu  stand,  looks  superciliously  up 
at  him. 

Now  that  the  very  moment  has  arrived,  he  feels  as  if 
words  fail  him.  He  knows  what  is  in  his  mind — his  belief 
in  her  treachery,  his  knowledge  of  her  vehement  opposition 
to  his  union  with  Evelyn — but — what  has  she  done  after 
all? 

Lady  Stamer,  staring  at  him,  and  noting  the  hesitation, 
laughs  again. 

"  Come,"  says  she.  "  As  you  seem  in  a  difficulty,  I  will 
help  you.  Who  should  help  a  child  but  its  mother  ?  And 
you  are  a  baby,  my  dear  Eaton,  in  many  ways,  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  you  have  come  to  man's  estate.  Now  I  will 
tell  you  what  is  in  your  mind.  You  have  come  here  to 
rage  against  me  about  that  little  D'Arcy  girl — because  she 
has  very  wisely  chosen  to  marry  a  man  who  can  give  her 
all  the  good  things  of  this  life.  Good  heavens !  Why 
storm  at  me,  then !  The  girl  has  done  it  of  her  own  free 
will.  The  girl,  in  my  opinion,  is  quite  right.  They  are  all 
miserably  poor,  those  D'Arcys — and  if  one  regrets  the 
mercenary  element  in  a  character  so  young  as  hers,  still — 
throwing  out  her  lovely  hands  gracefully,  until  all  the  dia- 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  241 

Blonds  on  them  flash  with  a  pretty  radiance — "  it  is  never- 
theless wise." 

"  You  are  plausible — as  usual,"  sttys  the  young  man,  who 
has  gone  over  to  the  chimn^ypiece,  and  leaning  against  it,  is 
looking  moodily  down  upon  the  black  fur  rug  at  his  feet — 
no  blacker  than  his  thoughts.  "  But  I  cannot  divest  my- 
self of  the  belief  that  she  might  have  been  saved  from  this 
marriage — a  marriage  that  seems  to  me  iniquitous." 

"  That  is  the  man's  view,"  briskly.  "  But,  my  dear  boy, 
why  save  her  ?  It  is  her  own  doing — and  really,  for  my 
part,  I  think  her  a  very  clever  girl.  There  is  hardly  a 
mother  in  the  county  who  wouldn't  have  given  her  daughter 
thankfully  to  Mr.  Crawford,  and  here  is  this  little  half-edu- 
cated thing  carrying  him  off  under  their  noses.  Rather 
smart  of  her,  it  seems  to  me." 

"  You  always  disliked  her,"  says  he  slowly.  "  Therefore 
it  is  impossible  you  could  understand.  Prejudice  blinds 
half  the  world.  I  have  been  thinking  it  all  over " 

He  has  indeed.  That  rapid  walk  home,  that  last  pas- 
sionately reproachful  glance  she  had  given  him — have  both 
helped  to  clear  his  mind.  He  had  been  eager  enough  to 
declare  to  her  that  he  had  understood  her,  "  fathomed  her 
shallow  nature,"  he  had  called  it — but  had  he  ?  Oh,  how 
could  he  have  spoken  to  her  like  that  ?  And  how  does  he 
dare  now  to  condemn  his  mother  for  not  understanding  her  ? 

"  She  is  not  mercenary,"  says  he  at  last,  in  a  tone  full  of 
conviction. 

"  It  is  an  ugly  word,"  says  his  mother  agreeably.  "  Why 
use  it  ?  We  can  probably  find  another ;  there  are  so  many 
different  names  nowadays  for  just  the  same  thing.  I  have 
suggested  to  you  that  she  is  clever.  Will  that  do  ?  Not 
mercenary — not  designing ;  she  is  only  clever." 

"  She  is  a  martyr.  She  is  deliberately  sacrificing  herself," 
says  the  young  man  slowly.  His  eyes  are  stiil  bent  upon 
the  rug,  his  mind  has  gone  back  to  that  last  scene  with  her, 
and  his  heart  is  failing  him.  Somehow  now  it  all  lies  clear 
before  him — he  understands  her  every  motive.  And  to  her 
terrible  grief  he  had  come,  only  to  add  to  it — to  give  another 
stab  to  that  already  burdened  soul.  Oh,  that  he  dared  to 
seek  her  again,  and  at  her  feet  demand  his  pardon  ! 

"  You  mean  that  story  about  the  colonel's  difficulties,  and 
Mr.  Crawford's  dropping  from  the  clouds  to  save  him  from 
destruction,  like  the  prince  in  a  fairy  tale  ?  Rather  an  elderly 

t6 


£42  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

prince,  it  must  be  confessed,"  with  an  airy  laugh.  "  A  verj 
pretty  story,  we  all  acknowledge,  and  very  well  got  up. 
Beauty  in  distress,  Beast  rushing  to  save  her.  Pouf  I  My 
dear  Eaton,  be  reasonable." 

"  It  is  the  reasonableness  of  it  that  strikes  me — and  that 
makes  it  so  cruel.  The  colonel  would  have  gone  to  the 
wall  if  Crawford  had  not  interfered,  and — and  she  was  too 
proud  to  take  all  and  give  nothing." 

"  And  what  was  the  '  all,'  as  you  eloquently  put  it  ?  A 
paltry  two  thousand  pounds.  Now  do  you  think  Colonel 
D'Arcy — do  you  think  any  one '  in  any  sort  of  position- 
could  be  ruined  for  so  small  a  sum  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  do.  D'Arcy  could  as  easily  have  got  twenty 
thousand  as  two ;  by  which  .1  mean  he  could  not  have  got 
either.  Of  course  he  could  have  been  sold  up,  and  there 
would  have  been  some  miserable  residue  on  which  he  and 
his  might  have  dragged  through  life,  but  when  there  was  a 
chance  of  escaping  such  a  death  in  life,  Evelyn  grasped  it." 

"  Well,  and  what  does  it  all  come  to.  You  have  struck 
the  old  key-note  on  which  we  started.  She  saw  her  oppor- 
tunity and — grasped  it." 

"  For  them,  not  for  herself." 

"  As  you  will,"  shrugging  her  shoulders,  as  if  argument 
is  over.  "  At  all  events,  she  grasped  it.  She  saved  the 
colonel  and  made  herself  a  rich  woman  for  life  in  a  single 
stroke.  That  was  killing  two  birds  with  one  stone,  with  a 
vengeance.  For  my  part  I  admire  the  girl,  however  others 
may  condemn  her.  Nothing  I  adore  like  astuteness." 

"You  fail  in  astuteness  here,"  says  he,  raising  his  eyes 
and  for  the  first  time  looking  straight  at  her.  Condemna- 
tion and  anger  are  burning  in  his  glance.  "  Or  else  you  are 
wilfully  maligning  Evelyn." 

"  Wilfully !  What  do  you  mean,  Eaton  ?  "  She  too  has 
cast  off  her  affectation  of  careless  scorn,  and  her  cold  eyes 
meet  his  with  violent  indignation  in  them.  She,  who  has 
been  accustomed  to  rule  her  little  world  with  a  despot's 
sway,  to  whom  even  her  eldest  son  submits — is  she  to  be 
taken  to  task  by  this — troublesome  younger  son  ?  A  harsher 
adjective  had  risen  to  her  mind. 

"  I  mean  what  I  say.  Erelyn  D'Arcy  is  neither  mercen- 
ary nor  designing,  nor  clever  in  the  hateful  way  you  would 
represent  her,  and  you  know  it" 

"  I  know  this  at  all  events,"  rising  and  leaning  one  hand 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  «4J 

upon  the  arm  of  her  couch;  "that  you  are  unpardonably 
insolent.  Ypu  forget  you  are  speaking  to  your  mother." 

"And  yOu,j>0# — do  you  not  forget?  "  cries  he  with  deep 
agitation.  "Am  I  not  your  son  ?  Is  the  whole  happiness 
of  my  life  nothing  to  you  ?  You  knew  I  loved  her ;  if  I 
never  before  put  it  into  words  for  you,  still  you  knew  of  it, 
as  surely  as  though  I  had  cried  it  aloud  to  heaven." 

"  Pray  do  not  waste  so  much  superfluous  energy,"  says 
his  mother  contemptuously.  "  You  need  not  seek  to  force 
the  truth  from  me ;  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  admit  it.  Cer- 
tainly I  knew  that  you  fancied  yourself  in  love  with  that 
little  hoyden,  and  though  I  did  not  know  it — I  do  not  pro- 
fess to  be  a  clairvoyante — still  I  hoped  devoutly  that  some 
saving  clause,  such  as  Mr.  Crawford  has  proved,  would 
arrive  to  save  you  from  your  own  idiocy.  You  accuse  me 
of  forgetting  that  you  are  my  son.  I  let  the  bad  taste  of 
that  accusation  go  by,  and  I  will  even  entreat  you  to  re- 
member that  the  first  duty  of  a  mother  to  her  child  is  to  see 
to  his  welfare,  both  earthly  and  heavenly.  With  regard  to 
the  latter,"  with  a  pious  sigh,  "  I  fear  you  have  got  beyond 
me,  and  must  choose  your  own  line  now;  but  with  the 
former  I  can  still  deal.  Your  marriage  with  a  penniless  girl 
would  mean  your  social  ruin." 

"  Therefore " 

"Therefore,  I  am  rejoiced  that,  without  any  inter- 
ference of  mine,  Evelyn  D'Arcy  4»as  placed  herself  so  very 
satisfactorily." 

"  Therefore,"  persists  he  hotly,  taking  no  notice  of  her 
interruption,  "you  kept  me  carefully  in  ignorance  of  all 
that  was  going  on  here  until  it  was  too  late  for  me  to  step 
in  and  save  the  girl  I  love  from  a  life  that  must  necessarily 
prove  abhorrent  to  her." 

"  Surely  she  is  the  best  judge  of  that.  If  it  is  so  very 
abhorrent  to  her  she  can  throw  it  up.  Mr.  Crawford,  who 
seems  to  me  to  be  little  short  of  a  fool,  could,  if  he  is  to  be 
considered  of  no  further  use,  be  very  easily  got  rid  of.  But 
you  will  find  that  Miss  D'Arcy,  like  a  sensible  girl,  will  see 
that  he  can  be  of  very  considerable  use  still." 

"Let  us  have  done  with  Evelyn,"  says  he  shortly. 
"  What  I  came  to  ask  you  was,  why  was  I  not  told  of  her 
engagement  until  it  was  a  month  old  ?  " 

"  Really,  my  dear,  that  is  a  problem  you  must  solve  fot 
yoursdi," 


§44  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE, 

"  No,  it  is  you  who  can  solve  it.  For  that  whoTe  month 
you  wrote  to  me  regularly  twice  a  week,  yet  in  not  one  of 
those  letters  did  you  mention  what  you  must  have  known 
so  terribly  concerned  me." 

"  I  might  say  that  it  was  because  I  could  not  bear  to  grieve 
you,"  says  Lady  Stamer,  carefully  adjusting  a  screen  between 
her  and  the  firelight;  "  but  the  truth  beyond  everything.  I 
did  not  tell  you  because  I  feared  you  might  hurry  home  and 
cause  a  disturbance.  I  see  now  I  was  right.  You  would 
have  taken  the  first  train;  you  would  have  hastened  to 
Miss  D'Arcy  ;  you  would  probably  have  found  her  with  her 
fiance  ;  you  would  have  given  way  to  your  ungovernable 
temper — there  would  have  been  a  most  unseemly  disturb- 
ance. Miss  D'Arcy,  who,  I  am  convinced,  knows  exactly 
what  she  intends  to  do,  would  have  given  you  your  conge  ; 
poor  dear  Mr.  Crawford  would  have  been  greatly  distressed, 
and  you  would  have  been  upset— for  a  fortnight,  or  until 
the  next  pretty  girl  took  your  fancy.  Now,  I  avoided  all 
that.  I  let  the  engagement  be  thoroughly  confirmed,  and 
then  I  let  you  know  of  it,  delicately,  gently.  Now  it  is  all 
over,  and  you  need  not  be  distressed;  you  need  not  even- 
see  her." 

"  I  have  seen  her,"  says  he  coldly. 

"  Ah  ! "  says  she.  The  exclamation  is  wrung  from  her  in 
spite  of  her  determination  to  treat  this  affair  coolly.  There 
is  a  silence  that  lasts  quite  a  minute,  and  then  : 

"  Where  did  you  see  her  ?  " 

**  This  morning.     In  the  Grange  Wood." 

"By  chance?" 

M  Not  quite.  I  went  up  to  Firgrove  to  see  her — to  learn 
the  actual  truth,  and  Jimmy  told  me  where  she  had  gone 
to.  I  followed  her,  and " 

"Well?" 

"  I  insulted  her  unpardonably,  so  far  as  I  can  remember. 

I  started  full  of  your  view  of  it,  and  when  we  met  I * 

He  breaks  off,  as  if  recollection  is  intolerable  to  him. 
'Never  mind.  It  is  all  over  now.  If  she  thinks  of  meat 
ill,  it  is  with  no  kindly  feeung." 

"  And  a  good  thing  too,"  says  Lady  Stamer,  with  some 
Blaerity,  "  Put  her  out  of  your  mind,  Eaton.  To  persist 
In  anything  like  a  courtship  of  her,  now  she  is  engaged  to 
another  man,  would  be  little  less  than  immoral." 

*J  You  speak  a$  though  she  were  already  married/ 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  Sg 

**  Well,  so  she  !s,  in  a  sense.  Decent  people,  when  they 
engage  themselves,  have  undertaken  all  the  duties,  the  re- 
sponsibilities of  matrimony.  And  in  this  matter  see  what 
a  good  match  it  is  for  the  girl ! " 

"  A  loveless  match  can  never  be  a  good  match,"  gloomily. 

"  But  who  is  to  say  it  isn't  a  love  match,"  says  she,  for- 
getting her  first  theory,  in  her  desire  to  convince  him  of  the 
futility  of  interfering  with  Evelyn's  engagement.  "  Mr. 
Crawford  is  a  charming  man — quite  an  acquisition  to  the 
neighbourhood — young  and  old  admire  him.  Why  should 
not  a  girl  like  Evelyn — who  knows  so  little  of  the  world- 
be  captivated  by  him  ?  " 

"  YVhy,  indeed !  And  if  so,  how  is  she  mercenary,  design- 
ing, and  clever ; "  says  he,  with  a  short  laugh.  Then 
savagely,  "  Why  can't  you  leave  her  out  of  it  ?  To  discuss 
her  with  you  is  to  feel  as  though " 

He  subdues  himself  by  a  supreme  effort. 

"  As  though  you  could  kiil  me  ?  "  suggests  she,  with  a 
low  laugh.  "  My  good  boy,  if  you  feel  like  that,  pray  go 
away.  You  are  doing  no  good  here,  and  you  are  hindering 
me  from  doing  what  must  be  done  before  post  hour.  Now 
go.  Miss  D'Arcy's  engagement  is  a.  fait  accompli — why  dis- 
cuss it  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  accomplished  yet,"  with  a  strange  note  in  his 
voice  that  instantly  alarms  her. 

"Any  one  who  would  seek  to  upset  that  engagement 
would  be  acting  maliciously,"  says  she  coldly.  "  I  believe 
no  son  of  mine,  however  alien  to  me  in  thought  and  senti- 
ment, would  be  guilty  of  a  dishonourable  action." 

"  What  is  honour  ?  "  says  he  suddenly,  turning  to  her. 

"  If  it  is  to  be  a  fresh  argument  I  confess  I  am  unequal  to 
it.  I  must  beg,  Eaton,  that  you  will  leave  me.  I  can  bear 
no  more,"  says  she,  waving  him  to  the  door  with  a  gesture 
not  to  be  combated. 


CHAPTER  XLVIL 

"TiME  and  the  hour  runs  through  the  roughest  day,"  and 
this  one  long  sad  day  has  at  last  come  to  an  end.  Night 
has  fallen  with  a  sullen  haste  that  speaks  of  storm  before 
morning,  and  has  cast  its  gloomy  veil  upon  the  patient 
earth.  As  yet  the  heavens  are  clear,  if  threatening ;  the  wind 


S40  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

is  low ;  it  is  almost  warm  for  the  time  of  year,  and  even  a 
spiritless  moon  may  be  seen  now  and  then,  trying  in  a 
faint-hearted  fashion  to  do  the  right  thing,  and  climb  her 
heaven. 

Evelyn,  who  had  come  home  from  her  unhappy  meeting 
with  Eaton  feeling  crushed  morally  and  physically,  and 
with  a  severe  headache,  had  declared  herself  unwell,  and 
had  lain  all  day  long  upon  her  little  bed,  battling  fiercely 
with  the  misery  that  has  overtaken  her.  To  be  true,  to  be 
faithful,  to  the  man  who  has  been  so  good  to  her  and  hers, 
is  her  chief  desire.  But,  oh  !  how  to  kill  the  longing  for 
that  other  man,  who  has  been  almost  brutal  to  her — who  has 
been  unjust,  blind,  cruel — but  who  loves  her  too. 

As  evening  grows  into  night  a  desire  to  go  out  into  the 
quiet  garden  and  feel  the  wind  blow  upon  her  tired  head 
takes  possession  of  her.  Slipping  softly  downstairs,  she 
passes  on  tiptoe  past  the  door  of  the  sitting-room,  where 
she  can  hear  the  merry  voices  of  the  elder  children  fighting 
gaily  over  their  bdzique,  and  with  a  sigh  of  relief  opens  the 
small  dooc  at  the  end  of  the  passage  that  leads  directly  into 
the  garden. 

The  feeling  that  she  is  giving  the  children  the  go-by  brings 
a  half-amused  smile  to  her  face.  Darling  children  !  It  is 
indeed  but  seldom  that  she  ever  cares  to  avoid  them.  But 
just  now  she  could  not  endure  even  their  harmless  prattle, 
and  if  they  got  only  a  hint  of  this  delightful  adventure  of 
hers,  this  stepping  out  into  the  cold  sweet  dark,  at  the  un- 
godly hour  of  ten,  not  all  the  mothers  and  fathers  in 
Christendom  would  have  been  able  to  keep  them  back  from 
following  her.  Therefore  much  caution  is  necessary. 

Her  desire  is  gained !  She  has  closed  the  door  softly 
behind  her;  she  is  now  stepping  lightly  into  the  silent 
garden.  The  damp  short  grass  is  at  her  feet,  the  sky  above 
her  head.  The  wind,  slight  as-  it  was,  has  ceased,  A 
strange  unearthly  quiet  fills  the  wintry  air. 

"  Not  a  sound  is  heard, 
No  sights  are  seen  ;  no  melancholy  bird 
Sings  tenderly  and  sweet :  But  all  the  aif 
Is  thick  and  motionless — as  if  it  were 
A  prelude  to  some  dreadful  tragedy." 

There  is  indeed  something  oppressive  in  the  night — that 
threatening  of  thunder  all  day  long,  now  culminating — that 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE  *# 

feacf,  no  doubt,  added  to  the  nervous  attack  that  is  making 
hsr  temples  throb. 

Still,  this  is  better  than  the  small  room  upstairs.  There 
is  space  here,  and  vastness,  and  a  chill  that' soothes  her. 
Lost  in  her  own  thoughts  she  goes  idly  onwards  until  an 
opening  in  the  laurustinas  on  one  hand,  and  a  path  through 
the  leafless  rose  trees  on  the  other,  compels  her  to  make  a 
choice. 

The  laurustinas  that  seem  to  be  opening  their  arms  to 
her  look  nevertheless  dark  and  forbidding.  Beyond  them, 
however,  lies  a  little  summer-house.  The  pale  moon  over- 
head is  casting  on  its  roof  a  sickly  ray  or  two.  It  will 
be  a  resting-place.  Surely  in  its  calm  seclusion  she  will 
be  restored  to  some  sort  of  quietude. 

She  has  taken  twenty  steps  or  so  in  its  direction  when 
the  consciousness  that  some  one  is  coming  towards  her 
brings  her  to  a  frightened  standstill.  At  this  hour — who  can 
it  be  ?  She  so  questions  herself,  but  in  truth  she  knows. 
How  often  has  he  come  and  gone  during  her  short  life  I 
How  many  and  many  a  time  has  she  listened  for  that  step 
that  is  now  coming  closer — closer  !  But  that  he  should 
come  now  t  And  after  all  that  happened  this  morning  ! 

A  wild  mad  rush  of  joy  darting  through  all  her  veins 
lends  her  strength.  She  stands  motionless,  but  involun- 
tarily, unconsciously,  holds  out  her  hands  to  him  in  the 
darkness. 

"Evelyn  !  Evelyn  ! "  cries  he,  grasping  them,  and  holding 
them  as  though  in  an  eternal  grasp.  "  It  is  you  ?  I  was 
going  up  to  the  house,  but " 

"  Yes,  it  is  I,"  says  she,  leaving  her  hands  in  his  in  her 
tumult  of  delight  and  tightening  the  grasp  of  her  slender 
fingers  upon  his.  "  Can  you  not  see  me  ?  " 

"  I  have  come  back,"  says  the  young  man  hurriedly,  "  to 
implore  your  forgiveness — to  go  on  my  knees  to  you.  I 
find  I  cannot  live  unless  I  am  at  peace  with  you." 

"  Oh,  that  is  all  right,"  says  she,  breaking  into  low 
feverish  laughter.  "  I  forgive  all — everything.  You  did  not 
mean  it.  I  felt  even  then  that  you  didn't.  Oh,"  laughing 
again  in  a  soft  but  heart-breaking  fashion,  "I  don't  know 
what  I  should  have  done  if  you  hadn't  come.  The  long 
night — and  always  thinking — and " 

She  stops  abruptly ;  that  eager  laughter  dies.  A  heavy 
ihudder  shakes  her  slender  frame,  and  she  bursts  into  tears. 


§4*  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

"  Oh,  ft  is  all  wrong,"  cries  she,  dragging  her  hands  from 
his  and  covering  her  eyes.  "  It  is  terrible  I  I  am  mad,  I 
think  1  Oh,  go  away  agaivi.  You  should  never  have  come 
•—never." 

"  I  think  I  should,"  says  he  stoutly.  "  You  are  tired. 
Come  in  here  " — leading  her  towards  the  little  thatched 
house — "  and  let  us  argue  it  out  quietly." 

"  Argument  is  useless,"  says  she  finally.  Some  thought 
that  means  despair  has  checked  her  tears,  and  she  now 
looks  up  at  him  in  the  dim  moonlight  with  large  sad  eyes. 

"  You  can't  know  that  yet.  Let  me  lay  my  case  before 
you." 

"  There  is  another  case,"  says  she. 

"Yes.     But  surely  not  so  strong  a  one  as  mine  ?" 

"  Stronger,"  sadly. 

"  You  make  too  much  of  it,"  says  he.  "  Say  he  did  you 
a  good  turn  once,  is  that  any  reason  why  you  should  give 
up  the  whole  happiness  of  your  life  to  him  ?  Oh,  Evelyn  1 
Darling  heart !  If  you  have  no  pity  for  yourself,  I  implore 
you  to  have  pity  upon  me." 

He  catches  her  hand  and  presses  it  passionately  to  his 
lips. 

"  Ah  !  it  is  too  late  for  that,"  says  she  with  a  strange 
smile.  "  You  might  have  had  pity  on  me,  but  you  didn't. 
No,"  interrupting  him  when  he  would  have  spoken,  with  a 
determined  gesture,  "  not  a  word.  I  want  no  explana- 
tions ;  it  is  all  over  now.  There  is  an  end  of  whatever 
friendship  may  have  been  between  us." 

"  Don't  say  that,"  says  he,  growing  deadly  pale.  "  Do 
you  forbid  me  your  presence  ?  If  this  horrible  thing  must 
be,  at  least  do  not  cast  me  utterly  adrift — do  not  fling  me 
altogether  out  of  your  path.  1  was  a  brute  to  you  this 

morning,  I  know  that;  but  I  felt  half  mad — and • 

Evelyn," — crushing  the  hand  he  holds  between  both  hit 
own — "must  you  marry  that  man  ?  " 

"  I  must,"  in  a  frozen  sort  of  way. 

"  But  it  is  wicked  ;  it  is  devilish  !  You  will  betray  both 
him  and  me.  My  darling,"  in  a  desperate  tone,  "  don't  be 
angry — don't  mind  what  I  say ;  I  hardly  know  myself  what 
I  am  saying.  But — don't  persist  in  this  matter;  give  me 
one  word  of  hope — of  comfort." 

"  I  haven't  one  to  give,"  in  a  stony  sort  of  way.  "  You 
come,"  with  a  little  sad  movement  of  her  head,  "too  lattln 


&  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  *# 

**By  that  I  am  to  understand  that  if  I  had  spoken 
sooner,  before  I  last  left  home,  you — you  would  have 
listened  to  me  ?  " 

No  answer. 

"  Oh,  why  did  I  not  speak  !  "  cries  he  in  anguish,  taking 
that  eloquent  silence  for  the  truth  it  is. 

"  Oh,  why,  why,  WHY  ! "  sobs  she,  breaking  once  again 
into  bitter  weeping.  "  Why  did  you  not  say  all  this  before  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  mournfully.  He  has  folded  his  arms 
round  her  and  is  straining  her  to  his  heart.  "  I  was  afraid, 
perhaps.  All  my  life,  I  think — I  know — I  have  loved  you, 
but  until  this  last  summer  it  never  became  quite  clear  to 
me,  and  then — oh,  don't  cry  like  that,  my  sweet — my 
love " 

"And  then?  "  asks  she  miserably,  recalling  him  from  her 
present  grief  to  that  past  one  when  she  had  seemed  to  be 
less  than  nothing  to  him,  whilst  he  had  been  all  in  all  to  her. 

"  Why,  then  you  were  cold  to  me,"  says  he;  "you  were 
cold,  Evelyn ;  you  must  remember  that.  And  then  that 
cursed  Crawford  came  with  all  his  money,  and  they  whis- 
pered to  me  that  you  were  a  sensible  girl,  and  were  seeing 
your  way  clear  to  be  a  rich  one  as  well." 

"  And  you "  making  an  effort  to  break  away  from  his 

protecting  arms. 

"  No,  I  did  not  believe  them ;  never — never.  Not  for 
a  moment.  But,"  with  hesitation,  "you  certainly  threw  me 
over  for  him  very  often." 

"  Oh,  no ! " 

"Well,"  humbly,  "it  seemed  so  to  me.  And  I  grew 
nervous  about  it.  After  all,  what  is  there  in  me  that  a  girl 
should  specially  fancy  me  ? "  says  Captain  Stamer  with 
such  astounding  modesty  as  only  love  the  all  powerful 
could  create.  "  And  that  last  day,  you  know,  when  I  came 
up  here  to  you,  you  were  dreadfully — er — er;  you  were 
really,  darling." 

"  Who  ?  I ! "  exclaims  she,  showing  herself  thoroughly 
conversant  with  the  foreign  language  he  is  using.  "  Oh  I 
it  was  you  who  were  cruel — cold — unjust." 

Evidently  the  "  er — er  "  had  meant  all  this. 

"  Was  it  ?  Perhaps  so.  I  didn't  know  it,"  says  he  de- 
jectedly. "  I  came  up  that  day  to  tempt  fortune — to  try 
my  fate  with  you,  and  something  in  your  manner,  something 
purely  imaginary,  I  am  sure,"  hastily  j  he  is  growing  posi* 


j$o  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

lively  abject  now,  "  prevented  the  words  from  passing  mj 
lips.  I  could  not  ask  you  to  marry  me  when  I  felt  your 
answer  would  be  No." 

"  I  don't  know  how  you  could  have  thought  that,"  says 
she  with  nai've  but  very  mournful  wonder.  "  As  for  me  I 
was  always  so  afraid  that  you  would  guess  how  it  was  with 
me." 

"  Too  afraid,  I  suppose,"  says  he  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"Perhaps  so!"  with  a  deeper.  "But  how  was  I  to 
know?  You  seemed  to  like  every  girl  just  as  well  as  you 
liked  me." 

"Evelyn!" 

"  Well,  you  did  indeed,  I'm  sorry  if  it  sounds  horrid, 
but  that's  just  how  it  looked  to  me.  Those  Staveley  girls, 
now  !  You  remember  that  day  at  Parklands  when  you  gave 
Esther  a  rose?" 

"  No,  I  don't  indeed." 

"Oh!  well,  I  do." 

"  But  I  suppose  she  asked  for  it,  and  in  one's  own  home 
how  was  one  to  refuse  her  ?  You  wouldn't  have  me  refuse 
her,  would  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  slowly — and  with  a  searching  glance 
that  quite  undoes  him.  "  I  don't  know  whether  she  asked 
you  for  it  either,  but — you  needn't  have  smiled  at  her  when 
you  gave  it." 

This,  being  plainly  a  grievance  that  has  long  rankled,  is 
received  by  S tamer  with  due  gravity.  In  truth  he  is  so  sad 
at  heart  that  not  even  the  absurdest  of  his  little  sweetheart's 
remarks  could  move  him  to  mirth. 

"  I  wish  I  had  frowned,"  says  he.  "  But  it  didn't  occur 
to  me.  I  wish  too,"  tightening  his  hands  on  hers  and 
regarding  her  in  the  uncertain  moonlight  with  a  miserable 
regret,  "  that  I  had  dared  all  things  at  our  last  meeting  and 
lisked  you  to  marry  me." 

"  Don't  I "  says  she,  dragging  her  slender  fingers  out  ol 
his  and  turning  away. 

"  But,  Evelyn  ! "  coming  closer  to  her,  encouraged  by 
that  impetuous  movement,  so  full  of  poignant  regret 
*'  Surely  it  is  too  early  to  despair.  You  do  not  belong  to 
him  yet.  And  now  that  we  both  know  that  we  love  each 
other,  why  need  this  unfortunate  engagement  with  Crawford 
be  carried  farther  ?  You  do  love  me,  don't  you  ?  And  I — " 

Words  seem  to  fail  him  here.     Folding  bis  arms  once 


A  LIFE'S  KEMORSE.  as» 

more  around  her,  he  draws  her  to  him,  and  stooping  seeks 
to  kiss  her,  but— — 


CHAPTER   XLVIII. 

SHE  denies  him.  Laying  her  hand  against  his  lips,  she 
presses  him  gently  from  her.  He  accepts  the  refusal  at 
once ;  there  is  something  in  her  eyes  that  checks  him. 
Imprinting  the  caress  he  would  haVe  given  her,  upon  her 
small  brown  palm  instead,  he  instantly  releases  her. 

"  You  will  give  him  up  ?  "  says  he  calmly. 

11  Who  ?     Mr.  Crawford  ?  "    With  a  startled  glance. 

"  Yes.     Why  not  ?     He  is  less  than  nothing  to  you," 

"You  are  wrong  there,"  nervously.     "  He " 

"  Has  done  you  one  immense  service,  no  doubt ;  but 
beyond  that,  has  no  part  in  your  life.  You  will  not  persist 
in  this  affair,  Evelyn  ?  You  will  throw  aside  this " 

"  I  cannot,"  says  she  in  a  low  tone  and  with  a  little 
frightened  expression.  "You  don't  know;  you  don't 
understand.  I — I  daren't." 

"  Daren't  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I'd  be  afraid  to  tell  him  I  wouldn't  marry  him. 
Oh  !  let  me  go,  Eaton,"  beginning  to  cry  bitterly.  "Don't, 
don't,  don't  hold  me.  I  belong  to  him.  You  were  right 
this  morning  when  you  said  he  had  bought  me.  That  is 
how  I  feel  about  it.  I  am  his.  There  is  no  escape  for  me. 
It  is  as  though  I  were  a  slave,  tied  and  bound,  and  without 
voice  or  power  of  my  own  in  the  matter.  Oh  !  what  shall 
I  do  ?  "  cries  the  poor  child  sobbing  violently  now.  "  Oh, 
why,  why  am  I  so  unhappy  ?  " 

"  You  are  taking  an  absurdly  morbid  view  of  the  whole 
thing.  It  won't  be  a  pleasant  task  no  doubt,  but  the 
straightforward  course  for  you  to  take  is  to  go  direct  to 
Crawford  and  tell  him  you  made  a  mistake,  and  that " 

"  I  couldn't,"  wildly.  "  He  would  listen  to  me,  and  he 
would  say  nothing,  and  there  would  be  a  look  in  his  eyes 
No,"  miserably,  "  I'd  rather  die  than  do  it.  You," 
faintly,  "  have  no  idea  how  dreadfully  fond  he  is  of  me." 

u  I  can  make  a  guess  at  it,"  grimly.  "  Still — I  think  you 
should  be  just  to  yourself  as  well  as  to  him,  Evelyn." 

"  He  wouldn't  thank  me  for  such  justice,"  says  she 
sorrowfully. 


»5*  A  LIFE'S  REMORSB. 

"You  are  prepared  then  to  sacrifice  three  lives,"  says  he 
in  a  new  tone,  so  strange,  so  grave,  so  full  of  something 
that  is  almost  sternness  that  her  heart,  if  possible,  sinks 
lower.  "  You  think  me  dishonourable  for  suggesting  this 
course  to  you — is  your  conduct  honourable,  do  you  think?  " 

"  Well,"  says  she  with  a  heavy  sigh,  raising  to  his  her 
large  eyes,  dark  with  tears,  "  it  is  I  who  shall  suffer  for  it." 

"  Oh,  no,"  says  he  with  a  most  unmirthful  laugh.  "  Don't 
console  yourself  with  that  fiction  !  We  shall  all  three  suffer, 
and  Crawford,  of  whose  happiness  you  are  so  careful,  wili 
probably  suffer  most  of  all.  Come,  Evelyn,  be  sensible. 
Do  as  I  advise  you.  Break  through  these  trammels  and  be 
yourself  again." 

"  I  could  not,"  almost  inaudibly. 

"You  mean  you  will  not.  After  all,"  coldly,  "why 
should  you  ?  There  are  many  things  for,  as  well  as  against, 
this  marriage.  I  grow  ridiculous  when  I  seek  to  pose  as 
one  of  such  extreme  importance  in  your  life." 

He  turns  abruptly  from  her.  He  might,  perhaps,  in  his 
angry  misery  have  left  her,  but  the  grasp  of  a  small  cold 
hand,  the  eager  clinging  of  trembling  fingers  around  his, 
recalls  him  to  his  gentler  self. 

"  It  is  our  last,  last  time  together,"  whispers  she  des- 
perately. "  Don't  be  unkind  to  me.  Don't,  darling." 

The  fond  appellation,  coming  from  her  as  though  wrung 
from  her  in  her  pain,  goes  to  his  heart. 

"Oh,  no,"  exclaims  he  sharply;  "not  that,  Evelyn;  not 
that."  He  feels  as  though  a  dagger  has  been  plunged  into 
him.  "Unkind  to  her!"  Represses  the  hand  he  holds, 
passionately  to  his  lips,  since  sweeter  joys  are  refused  him. 
"  But  when  a  man's  heart  is  breaking,  how  is  he  to  know 
what  words  he  uses?  And  see  now,  Evelyn,"  trying  to 
recover  himself  and  attain  to  a  calm  judicial  air.  "Say 
Crawford  is  miserable  for  a  month  or  two  after  you — • 
you -" 

"  Throw  him  over.  Go  on.  Why  hesitate  about  it  ? " 
wearily. 

"  Well,  yes.  Surely  that  is  not  so  bad  as  for  you  to  be 
miserable  all  your  long  sweet  life." 

"  You  talk  like  that,"  says  she  slowly  and  with  the  slightest 
soupfon  of  reproach.  "  You.  Will  you  be  miserable,  then, 
for  only  a  month  or  two,  when "  She  falters. 

"But  that  will  never  be,"  says  he  promptly  and  with 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  «53 

Bndden  fervour.  All  his  courage  has  come  ^ack  to  him. 
He  seems  fresh  and  vigorous,  and  very  fit  "to  fight  his 
battle  o'er  again."  "  It  is  not  worth  an  argument.  I  will 
resign  you  to  no  man  living.  Why  should  I  ?  "  with  increas- 
ing valour,  seeing  she  does  not  seek  to  silence  him.  "  Love 
is  lord  of  all,  and  love  is  on  my  side ;  he  has  given  you  to 
me,  and  no  other." 

"  Cruel  love !  "  says  she  with  a  smile  that  is  sad  as  a  tear. 

"  Don't  look  at  it  in  that  way." 

"  Is  there  another  way  ?  He  has  placed  my  heart  where 
it  would  be — my  body  he  has  forgotten." 

"  He  has  left  that  for  your  own  bestowal.  Do  his 
generosity  justice.  Say  you  will  give  up  Crawford." 

"  You  forget,"  clasping  her  hands  nervously  before  her, 
"  that  I — owe  him,  not  only  unfailing  kindness,  but  a  large 
sum  of  money." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  think  he " 

"No.  No.  Don't  so  persistently  misjudge  him.  He 
gave  freely,  gladly,  with  all  his  heart,  and  without  thought 
of  reward.  I  will  even  confess  to  you,  Eaton,"  colouring 
hotly,  though  she  knows  he  cannot  see  her  crimson  cheeks, 
"  that  I  had  to  entreat  him  to  marry  me  before  he  would 
consent." 

"  Oh,  I  daresay  !  "  says  Captain  Stamer  derisively.  "  I 
think  I  see  you  begging  to  any  man  to  marry  you — in  vain." 

"  Well,  he  would  not  hear  of  it  at  first,"  sighing.  "  And 
it  was  only  when " 

"  When  the  farce  was  clearly  played  out,  and  he  was  quite 
sure  he  had  made  his  magnanimity  apparent  to  you,  and  he 
began  to  fear  you  might  take  him  at  his  word,  that  he  nobly 
consented  to — destroy  your  whole  life.  Pshaw  1  It's  as 
plain  as  a  pikestaff." 

"  How  unjust  you  can  be  ! " 

"  Not  to  Crawford,"  with  conviction.  "  From  the  first 
moment  I  saw  him  I  felt  a  distrust  to  him ;  and  I  cannot 
yet  believe  it  was  unfounded." 

"  You  distrusted  me  too,"  says  she  sadly. 

"That  you  must  forgive  me,"  rejoins  he  as  sadly.  "It 
was  not  a  real  distrust  either ;  nothing  deep  rooted ;  the 
mere  madness  of  a  moment,  rising  from  a  heart  that  was  on 
fire  with  grief  and  despair.  It  arose  through  love  of  you." 

"  He  loves  me  too  ! " 

"  Don't  speak  like  that,  Evelya/'  exclaims  he  vehemently. 


«S4  A  LIFE'S  EEMOKSE. 

"  It  is  horrible  to  me  to  think  that  he  so  much  as  dares  to 
love  you.  Oh  •  "  changing  from  vehement  anger  to  entreaty 
as  vehement,  "my  dear,  dear  girl,  why  will  you  wilfully 
ruin  both  our  lives  ?  " 

"You  talk  like  that — as  if  you  condemned  me,"  says  she 
with  deep  agitation,  and  thrusting  him  from  her  when  he 
would  have  sought  to  draw  nearer  to  her.  "But  what 
would  you  have  me  do,  then  ?  He  saved  the  colonel  from 
terrible  misfortune ;  he  restored  to  Kitty  her  peace  of  mind  j 
he  rescued  the  children  from  penury  and  discomfort ;  ha 
gave  the  colonel — oh  no,  no — he  gave  me  £2,000  ;  and  am  I 
to  give  him  in  return  only  base  ingratitude  ?  Only  a  broken 
heart  and  a  trust  betrayed  ?  " 

"  As  to  the  money,"  says  he,  "  I  can  get  that.  I  can 
manage  it  easily.  Why  on  earth,  darling,  didn't  you  ask  me 
for  it  at  the  beginning  ?  " 

"  Where  could  you  have  got  it  ?  Where  could  you  get  it 
now  even  ?  "  says  she  with  growing  dejection.  "  Besides,  I 
could  never  have  asked  you  or  any  one  for  it.  He  offered 
it." 

"  I  can  get  it  now,"  eagerly.      "  Bertram " 

She  checks  him  by  a  gesture. 

"  Do  you  think  it  likely  he  or  your  mother  would  help 
you  in  any  scheme  that  would  enable  you  to  marry  me  t 
Besides,"  rising  from  the  rustic  bench  on  which  she  had 
seated  herself  a  minute  ago,  "even  if  they  would — it 
would  be  useless." 

"  One  word,"  entreats  he,  detaining  her,  but  very  gently. 
"  If  I  can  arrange  it — then  ?  " 

"You  mean,"  says  she  slowly,  "that  if  you  can  repay 
Mr.  Crawford  the  £2,000,  that  then  I  might  honourably 
consider  all  things  at  an  end  between  him  and  me.  But 
what  of  his  kindness,  his  delicacy,  his  faith  in  me,  his 
generosity  in  coming  forward  to  help  us,  when  no  one  else 
came  ?  " 

"That  is  unjust,"  says  Stamer  coldly.  "I  heard — I 
knew  nothing." 

"  No,  no,"  impatiently.  "  I  was  not  thinking  of  you — of 
any  one — only  of  him  !  Who  shall  repay  all  his  tenderness 
to  me  and  mine?  I alone /  And  am  I  to  do  so  by  aban- 
donment, by  treachery,  by  cruelty  ?  " 

"He  is  fortunate  in  being  so  hisrh  up  in  your  esteem," 
says  he  with  a  sneer.  Then,  "Ohl  forgive  me  again, 


A  LITE'S  KWgRSH,  •  «$$ 

Evelyn,"  cries  he  with  deep  contrition.  "After  all,  who  am 
I  that  I  should  sTieer  at  him  ?  I  begin  to  think  he  is  the 
better  fellow  of  the  two.  He  does  not  wound  you  as  I  do." 

"  No,'''  says  she  in  a  low  voice. 

tt  Ah,"  jealously,  "  you  allow  him  all  virtues,  me  none." 

"  Alas  !  How  I  wish  I  saw  none  in  you,"  cries  she  with 
sudden  bitter  vehemence.  "  I  wish  you  were  as  I  thought 
you  a  month  ago,  without  love  for  me." 

"  Is  love  for  you  a  virtue  ?  "  says  he  laughing  sadly.  "  Why, 
then  indeed  I  have  it  so  largely  that  it  must  cover  the 
multitude  of  my  sins." 

"  It  is  a  misfortune,"  says  she.  "  Before,  when  I  believed 
you  cared  less  than  nothing  for  me,  it  was  all  easier,  simpler 
if,"  with  a  swift,  adorable  glance  at  him,  "even  more 
unhappy.  I  had  my  life  arranged  for  me  then ;  a  dull  one, 
without  hope,  but  without  this  new  terrible  pain.  And  now, 

now !  Oh,  it  is  cruel  of  you !  You  come  here,  you  tell 

me  what  I  have  craved  to  hear  for  all  these  dreary  months, 
but  you  tell  it  me  too  late !  You  leave  me  nothing  now 
in  the  whole  wide  world  save  regret  and — remorse." 

"You  upbraid  me.  Have  /  then  no  grievance,  no 
regret  ?  "  « 

"  You  will  forget — in  a  month  or  two." 

"Evelyn!  Evelyn!"  cries  he  passionately.  He  throws 
his  arms  round  her  and  strains  her  to  his  heart,  thus  once 
more  in  a  measure  taking  her  into  possession.  "Am  I 
nothing  to  you  that  you  persist  in  this  hateful  engage- 
merit?  Give  him  up — give  yourself  to  me  instead.  Do 
you  think  if  he  knew,  he  would  wish  you  to  marry  him  ? 
If  he  is  the  paragon  you  represent,  would  he  not  rather 
secure  your  happiness  than  his  own  ?  See  now,  heart," 
pressing  her  hand  against  his  cheek,  "  if  you  are  afraid,  let 
me  speak  to  him  ! " 

By  a  single  vehement  effort  she  releases  herself. 

"  What  folly ! "  cries  she  feverishly.  "  You  to  speak 
to  him !  Now,  once  for  all,  Eaton,"  leaning  towards  him 
and  holding  up  her  hand  with  an  imperious  gesture.  "  I 
forbid  you  to  speak  to  Mr.  Crawford  on  this  matter.  You 
hear?" 

"  You  shall  be  obeyed,  of  course,"  returns  he  stiffly. 

"  Of  course,"  says  she  with  that  little  touch  of  childish 
hauteur  that  he  had  always  thought  so  sweet  in  her.  "  And 
Oo w  good-ui^ht,"  She  seems  in  a  hurry  to  be  gone.  Per- 


*5«  A  LIFE'S  REMORSB. 

haps  she  dreads  more  words,  more  arguments,  stronger 
entreaties. 

"  I  shall  see  you  to  the  door,"  says  he  stiffly  still. 

"  No,  no,"  eagerly.  "  There  is  no  need.  "  Good-night* 
She  holds  out  to  him  her  hand  nervously.  It  has  grown 
very  cold. 

"  How  cold  you  are,"  says  he  anxiously.  "  I  suppose  you 
are  not  half  warmly  made  up,  and  now  you  have  got  a  chill 
Come  indoors  quickly ;  what  madness  of  me  to  keep  you 
out  at  this  hour." 

"  Madness  indeed  ! "  says  she,  but  too  low  for  him  to  hear 
her.  A  madness  that  will  affect  her  her  whole  life  long. 
Oh  !  if  she  had  not  come  out — if  she  had  not  met  him — she 
might  never  have  known  this  deep,  sweet  thrill  of  pain; 
might  never  have  known  how  well  he  loves  her.  Yet  would 
she  be  without  the  knowledge  ? 

She  turns  at  the  door  to  give  him  a  last  glance. 

"  Remember,  I  shall  not  give  you  up,"  he  says  doggedly, 
and  a  moment  afterwards  is  lost  in  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

•  Sweet  day  !  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright," 

QUOTES  Mr.  Blount  effusively,  staring  at  the  rivulets  that 
are  rushing  down  the  panes.  Patter,  patter,  patter  goes 
the  rain  in  most  lachrymose  numbers.  The  sky  is  a  dingy 
brown,  the  wind  is  whirling  round  the  house,  the  storm 
threatened  last  night  is  commencing  to-day  with  a  vengeance. 

"  Specially  the  '  cool,' "  goes  on  Mr.  Blount  thoughtfully. 
"The  sweetness 'of  that  quite  enters  into  one's  old  bones. 
Do  I  know  you  well  enough,  Mrs.  D'Arcy,  to  be  entitled  to 
poke  your  fire  ?  "  making  a  furious  onslaught  on  that  hand- 
some mass  of  glowing  coal  and  wood  as  he  speaks.  "  If  not, 
say  so.  By  Jove !  "  standing  still  for  a  moment  and  staring 
out  of  the  window  that  overlooks  the  avenue,  with  the  poker 
uplifted  in  a  martial  manner.  "  Here  comes-  Crawford. 
Nothing  would  keep  that  fellow  at  home,  I  suppose." 

Evelyn,  who  is  sitting  on  a  distant  ottoman,  pretending  to 
embroider  a  child's  frock,  starts  slightly,  and  a  deep,  dull 
red  flames  into  her  cheeks.  Must  she  stay,  must  she  meet 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSB.  iff 

triai,  lie  with  that  kindly,  unsuspicious,  trusting  smile  of  his, 
and  she ! 

If  it  had  been  last  month — a  year  ago— but  last  night  f 
Hours  so  few  between  then  and  now  that  they  seem  like 
seconds.  If  she  could  but  forget  his  words,  and  looks,  and 
— Oh  !  how  could  she  have  let  him  put  his  arms  round  her? 

Her  heart  seems  to  burst  with  one  long  sigh.  But  she 
pores  over  her  needlework  industriously,  lest  her  misery 
should  grow  apparent  to  the  other  two  in  the  room.  No  I 
there  is  no  chance  of  escape ;  Kitty  would  think  it  strange 
if  she  withdrew,  and  Batty  is  always  such  a  fool,  he  would  be 
sure  to  say  something  odd  about  it.  And  besides,  there  will 

be  always  days,  and  days,  and  days .  Just  as  well  to  face 

it  at  once.  And  after  all  it  won't  be  so  bad  with  Batty  here. 
It  was  a  merciful  Providence  that  sent  him  over  this  morning, 
that  started  him  before  the  rain  began.  If  he  hadn't  been 
here,  Kitty  would  have  thought  it  her  kindly  duty  to  go 
away  presently  under  the  pretence  of  heavy  domestic  re- 
quirements, but  now  she  will  stay  to  talk  to  Batty.  What 
a  life  it  is  !  One  perpetual  tutoring  of  oneself  from  morning 
till  night,  and  never  the  task  perfected. 

"  Dear  me  !  is  it  really  Mr.  Crawford  ?  "  asks  Mrs.  D'Arcy. 
"  I'm  afraid  he  must  be  very  wet.  It  is  he  indeed,"  peering 
over  Mr.  Blount's  shoulder  and  smudging  her  sleeve  with 
his  poker.  "  He  must  be  drowned  ! " 

"  Let  us  hope  not,"  with  a  tragic  uplifting  of  his  eyes  and 
the  poker,  "  for  Evelyn's  sake.  The  misguided  but — still 
dearly-beloved — Evelyn,  who  has  had  the  folly  to  prefer 
him  to  me.  Besides,  dear  Mrs.  D'Arcy,  if  you  will  just  look 
you  will  see  that  he  is  as  safe  as  Noah  in  his  ark.  Like  the 
patriarchs  of  old  he  has  brought  his  tent  with  him." 

"  Certainly  it  is  big,"  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy  admiringly,  alluding 
to  Mr.  Crawford's  umbrella,  which,  to  say  the  truth,  has 
nothing  mean  about  it.  The  avenue  is  one  of  those  that  are 
without  the  orthodox  windings,  and  therefore  Mr.  Crawford's 
coming  can  be  watched  from  afar,  from  the  moment  he  enters 
the  gates  of  Firgrove  until  he  lands  under  the  shelter  of 
the  porch. 

"It  is  unrivalled.  It  is  pf  noble  dimensions.  It  is 
worthy  of  all  imitation,"  declares  Mr.  Blount  enthusiasti- 
cally. "  It  is  a  parachute  of  which  any  man  might  well  be 
proud.  It  is  the  literal  family  umbrella  of  which  we  have 
ail  heard  so  much)  but  which  so  few  of  us  have  seen  in  thQ 


•5*  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

ribs.  Where  under  heaven  did  he  get  it  ?  Perhaps,"  with 
a  burst  of  inspiration,  "  he  made  it !  " 

"  Oh  !  nonsense  !  "  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy,  who  is  the  kindliest 
soul  alive,  but  not  perhaps  the  smartest. 

"  Well,  Evelyn,  I'd  hang  on  to  it  if  /  were  you,"  says  Mr. 
'Blount.  "  It's  a  most  useful  article.  It  is  quite  big  enough 
to  shelter  you  and  Crawford  and  all  the  little " 

"If  I  were  you,  Batty,"says  Evelyn,  checking  him  severely, 
"  I  shouldn't  let  him  see  me  peeping  at  him  through  a 
window." 

"  True,  true,"  says  that  genial  youth,  lowering  the  poker, 
but  otherwise  taking  no  notice  of  her  suggestion.  "  There 
is  something  truly  undignified  in  the  word  peeping.  One 
shouldn't  peep !  But,"  bursting  into  a  wild  giggle  as  his 
eyes  still  follow  Crawford's  tall,  advancing  frame,  "did 
you  ever  see  such  an  ass  as  he  looks  ?  Now  why  on  earth 
couldn't  he  have  stayed  at  home  on  such  an  ungodly  day  as 
this  ?  " 

"  Why  couldn't  you  ?  "  retorts  Miss  D'Arcy  forcibly. 

"  Evelyn  ! "  says  Mr.  Blount  reproachfully.  "  Are  you 
the  one  to  ask  that  question  ?  Good  heavens  !  is  there 
any  wild  beast  of  prey  as  cruel  as  '  the  young  girl  f  '  You 
know  it  is  my  hopeless  love  for  you  that  drives  me  thither 
through  the  blinding  rain." 

"  I  don't  believe  it  was  raining  one  drop  when  you  left 
Parklands,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy  unrelentingly. 

"  Raining  or  not  raining,"  says  Mr.  Blount,  adroitly 
avoiding  this  insinuation,  "  you  know  I  never  can  keep 
away  from  you." 

"Well,  perhaps  Mr.  Crawford  can't  either,"  says  Mrs. 
D'Arcy  with  her  pleasant  little  laugh. 

"  Was  it  raining?"  demands  Evelyn  fixing  Mr.  Blount 
-7ith  an  uncompromising  eye. 

"  Was  it  ?  Let  me  see  ?  "  says  that  young  man  throwing 
himself  at  once  into  a  deeply  meditative  attitude,  and  star- 
ing at  the  ceiling  as  though  his  life  depends  upon  wringing 
the  truth  from  it  "  Well,"  with  noble  truthfulness, "  perhaps 
not.  If  it  had  been " 

"  You'd  have  stayed  at  home,"  puts  in  Miss  D'Arcy  ruth- 
lessly. "  What  a  pity  it  wasn't"  says  she  presently  adding 
rudeness  to  the  ruthlessness. 

"  Why  ?  "  demands  he  mildly.  "  I  don't  think  it  would 
have  made  much  difference.  I  have  assured  you  I  can't 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  959 

five  without  you,  and  a  dogcart  can  generally  be  squeezed 
out  of  my  aunt,  even  if  Sir  Bertram  is  away.  I  should 
have  come  all  the  same." 

So  he  would  !  A  half  word  that  he  had  forced  from 
Eaton  in  his  jesting  fashion  last  night,  when  Eaton  had 
come  rather  late  into  the  smoking-room  looking  fagged  and 
wretched  and  hopeless,  had  determined  him  to  walk  or 
drive  to  Firgrove  to-day,  were  all  the  elements  astir.  News 
of  her,  however  bald,  would  be  welcome  to  Stamer's  bruised 
spirit. 

"  Oh  !  I  daresay,"  says  Evelyn  impatiently.  She  is  hold- 
ing herself  together  as  well  as  she  can,  but  she  is  distinctly 
out  of  tune  with  all  her  surroundings.  Oh  !  to  get  away — 
to  hide — to  efface  herself. 

"To  be  rude  to  the  one  that  adores  you  is  surely  a  thank- 
less task,"  says  Mr.  Blount  with  overwhelming  severity. 
"  But  I  know  it  is  the  one  thing  to  be  expected  of  woman  ! 

However,  time  may  teach  you  that Hallo  !  Crawford  ! 

Here  you  are  !  Who'd  have  thought  it  1  This  is  a  surprise  ! 
And  dry  too  !  Came  in  your  brougham  of  course  !  Odd 
thing,  you  know ;  but  Evelyn  and  I  were  just  saying  that  in 
all  probability,  in  spite  of  the  weather,  you  would  be  sure  to 
look  in." 

Crawford  has  shaken  ht»nds  with  Evelyn  and  has  passed 
on  to  Mrs.  D'Arcy,  so  providentially  does  not  see  the  indig- 
nant glance  the  former  has  directed  at  Mr.  Blount.  That 
ingenuous  youth  receives  it  full,  and  shows  his  deprecation 
of  it  by  a  display  of  gestures  hardly  to  be  rivalled  by 
the  most  advanced  acrobat. 

"  What  would  you  have,  my  dear  girl  ? "  whispers  he 
tragically,  whilst  Crawford  is  asking  questions  about  the 
colonel's  cold.  "  The  most  correct  thing  in  the  world ! 
Showed  him  your  mind  was  entirely  given  over  to  him. 
Eh  ?  Couldn't  be  better,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  do  hope  you  are  not  wet,"  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy  hospit- 
ably to  Crawford.  "  Such  a  day !  " 

"Yes,"  says  Crawford.  "Very  bad.  I  had  no  idea  it 
was  going  to  be  more  than  a  shower  when  I  left  home,  but 
you  see  we  never  know  what  is  going  to  happen  next  in  this 
happy-go-lucky  world  of  ours.  I  felt  dull — the  atmosphere 
perhaps — I  thought,"  with  a  slow  loving  glance  at  Evelyn, 
4'I  would  come  down  here  to  be  cheered." 

"  Well,  so  you  shall  be,"  says  she,  throwing  down  her 

ta— • 


tfo  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

embroidery,  and  coming  at  once  up  to  the  hearth-rug 
where  he  is  standing.  *'  But  how  are  we  to  cheer  you  on  a 
day  like  this  ?  " 

"Providentially  I  brought  the  Times  with  me,"  says 
Mr.  Elount,  drawing  that  paper  from  his  pocket.  "It's 
always  full  of  information,  and  murders." 

"  Oh  !  no,  Batty,  no  murders,"  says  Evelyn,  with  a  sort 
of  passionate  haste. 

"  No  murders,"  repeats  Mr.  Crawford,  in  a  dull  tone,  as 
if  echoing  her  request. 

"  That's  morbidness,  my  dear  girl ;  a  phase  of  feeling 

that  should  instantly  be  checked.  Now,  at  breakfast By. 

the-by,  I  hope  my  gentle  aunt  isn't  giving  way  to  bad  lan- 
guage by  this  time,  at  the  abduction  of  her  favourite  paper 
—but  never  mind." 

"  You  should  mind,"  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy,  severely  for  her, 
"  And  it  was  foolish  of  you  too.  as  the  colonel  could  have 
lent  you  his  copy,  if  there  is  anything  in  it  very  special  for 
you  to  read." 

"  There  is  !  A  real  good  thing.  An  awful  thing  !  **  says 
Mr.  Blount,  gazing  round  him,  and  growing  positively 
radiant  as  he  notes  the  impression  he  is  creating.  "  About 
the  best  murder  we've  had  for  a  twelvemonth." 

"  I  think  we  none  of  us  care  much  for  that  sort  of  news," 
says  Mrs.  D'Arcy,  with  a  lingering  nervous  glance  a!  Evelyn. 
The  girl  has  sunk  into  a  chair,  and  is  staring  at  Mr.  Blount, 
but  she  has  made  no  further  protest. 

"  But  this  is  the  most  mysterious  affair,"  goes  on  M*. 
Blount  volubly.  "  Not  a  clue,  not  a  trace — all  buried  in 
mystery.  No  apparent  reason — no  robbery — watch  and 
money  found  on  body.  Let  me  see — m — m — where  on 
earth  is  it  ?  "  turning  paper.  "  Oh,  here  !  It's  so  extra- 
ordinary that  thers's  a  leader  on  it.  '  Police  at  fault ' — 
always  are.  '  Nothing  so  strange  as  this  last  appalling  and 
apparently  purposeless  crime  has  occurred  since  the  mys- 
terious murder  of  an  elderly  gentleman  ten  years  since. 
Some  of  our  readers  may  remember  it.  The  victim  was  a 
Mr.  Darling,  who  was  found  murdered  on  a  Sunday  after- 
noon in  his  own  library  at  10,  Sandiford  Street,  where ' " 

A  sharp  cry  from  Evelyn,  or  is  it  a  groan  ? — could  there 
have  been  both  ? — startles  Mr.  Blount  into  silence.  The 
paper  falls  from  his  hand,  and  he  turns  anxiously  to  where 
f£f  £a  is  now  standing  upon  the  hearth-rug,  her  eye* 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  80t 

distended,  her  hands  clasped  upon  her  bjsorn.  She  is  ai 
white  as  linen,  and  there  is  an  expression  of  horror  upon 
her  face  that  terrifies  him.  What  has  happened  ? 

Mrs.  D'Arcy  has  risen. 

"  Oh  !  Batty,  how  could  you  ?  Oh  !  you  shouldn't  have 
done  that,"  cries  she  to  the  petrified  youth,  who  is  glaring 
at  the  group  before  him.  Mrs.  D'Arcy  has  gone  up  to 
Evelyn,  the  keenest  sympathy  upon  her  face,  and  would 
have  placed  her  arms  round  her,  but  the  girl  presses  her 
back,  and  with  a  little  convulsive  sob  rushes  out  of  the 
room. 

"  Good  gracious  !  What  have  I  done  now  ?  "  exclaims 
Mr.  Blount  miserably.  But  Mrs.  D'Arcy  has  burst  into 
tears,  and  in  despair  of  learning  anything  from  her,  Blount 
turns  his  amazed  eyes  to  the  window,  where  Crawford  is 
standing. 

Leaning  rather  against  the  woodwork  of  the  window,  as 
though  power  to  support  himself  unaided  is  gone  from  him. 
Blount  regarding  him,  feels  that  he  is  growing  cold. 
What  face  is  that  ?  Is  it  Crawford's  ?  Great  heaven,  what 
a  ghostly  thing?  Livid,  with  drawn  mouth  and  eyes  star- 
ing, staring  at  the  ground  before  him,  as  though  seeing 
there  some  gruesome  thing  that  he  fain  would  pluck  up, 
and  grapple  with,  and  destroy.  Is  the  man  going  to  have 
a  fit? 

"  Crawford,  Crawford,  I  say,"  says  Blount,  taking  a  step 
towards  him. 


CHAPTER  L: 

flis  voice,  piercing  through  that  cruel  mist  of  memory, 
recalls  Crawford  to  himself. 

"  Yes,  yes.     What  is  it  ?  "  says  he  vaguely. 

"  I  wish  I  knew,"  says  Mr.  Blount  indignantly.  "  Here 
t  am  at  one  moment  reading  a  simple  paragraph  from  the 
Times,  and  lo !  and  behold  in  the  next  the  whole  world 
blows  up.  There's  Evelyn  bolted  out  of  the  room  at  a 
tangent,  without  a  word  of  explanation." 

"  Evelyn  ?  "  says  Crawford,  gazing  at  him  in  a  dull  sort  of 
way.  "  What  has  Evelyn  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  That's  it,  my  dear  fellow  !  That's  the  whole  affair, 
don't  you  see  ?  I  read  to  her  of  the  murder  of  a  poor  old 


cfe  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

gentleman,  who  was  done  to  death  about  a  hundred 

ago  by  some  dastardly  ruffian,  and  she  flies  out  of  the  room 

as  though  she  herself  had  committed  the  deed." 

"  She — but  why  should  she  care  ?  "  asks  Crawford,  his  face 
growing  even  greyer. 

"  Why  should  you,  for  the  matter  of  that  ?  Why  the 
mystery  here,"  says  Mr.  Blount,  pointing  to  but  not  touch- 
ing the  Times — he  has  had  enough  of  it  for  one  day — "  is  a 
fool  to  this  one.  I  wish  you  would  explain." 

"  Evelyn — she  was  distressed,"  stammers  Crawford. 

"  My  dear  fellow  !  If  you  are  going  to  look  like  that 
on  every  occasion  on  which  your  wife  is  a  little  upset, 
you'll  have  a  gay  old  time  of  it,"  says  Mr.  Blount  scorn- 
fully. "  Mrs.  D'Arcy,"  going  over  to  her,  as  he  sees  she  is 
wiping  her  eyes  and  has  stopped  crying,  "  tell  us  do,  what 
has  so  disturbed  Evelyn.  It  is  all  my  fault  apparently  ;  but, 
as  you  well  know,  I  wouldn't  hurt  her  if  my  life  depended 
on  it.  And  here's  Crawford  about  as  unhappy  as  they 
make  'em,  because  of  her." 

"  Indeed  you  mustn't  take  it  so  much  to  heart,"  says 
Mrs.  D'Arcy,  gazing  kindly  at  Crawford,  and  feeling  greatly 
touched  by  his  pallor.  "  It  was  a  shock  to  the  poor  child, 
of  course,  but  it  was  nobody's  fault — nobody's,"  with  a 
reassuring  glance  at  Batty.  "  You  see  we  never  speak  of 
it,  and  when  you  read  it  out  so  abruptly,  without  any  warn' 
ing,  she  was  naturally  a  good  deal  disturbed." 

"  But  read  what  ?  "  asks  Mr.  Blount,  with  pardonable  im- 
patience. 

"That  paragraph;  it  came  on  her  like  a  thunderbolt. 
Dear  Mr.  Crawford,  you  must  not  be  so  unhappy  about  hert 
you  look  really  ill.  It  was  unfortunate  that  Batty  should 
have  read  out  about  that  old — old — terrible  affair — but  she 
will  get  over  it  by  the  evening." 

"  But  she "  says  Crawford.     He  strides  up  to  Mrs. 

D'Arcy,  a  wild  light  in  his  eyes,  and  lays  his  hand  upon  her 
arm.  "  That  old  affair — that  old  man — what  had  he  to  do 
with  her  ?  " 

"  He  was  her  father!"  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy  simply. 

"  Oh,  great  heaven  ! "  cries  Crawford,  in  a  fearful  tone. 
"  Oh,  Evelyn !  Oh,  my  little  girl  1 " 

It  would  be  impossible  to  give  any  conception  of  the 
agony  that  thrills  through  his  voice  and  shakes  his  frame. 

"It  is  impossible  I     Impossible,  I  tell  you  1    Is 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  463 

no  mercy  f  Is  God  a  devil  I  And  her  name — her  name  I  " 
He  stops  short — a  gleam  of  exquisite  hope  lights  his  face. 
"  Her  name  is  D'Arcy  !  "  cries  he  exultingly. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Crawford,  you  must  not  take  it  like  this, 
you  must  not,  indeed,"  exclaims  kindly  Mrs.  D'Arcy,  with 
pathos  in  her  trembling  voice.  She  is  frightened  and 
troubled  by  his  manner.  "  Why  should  you  regard  it  as 
so  present  a  misfortune?  It  all  happened  so  long  ago,  and 
Evelyn  should  be  taught  to  regard  it  calmly,  not  violently. 
If  you  look  at  it  in  this  way,  you  will  only  encourage  her  in 
what  must  be  termed  a  morbid  regret." 

"  Her  name — her  name?  "  says  he,  with  parched  lips. 

"That  can  easily  be  explained — how  I  wish  I  had  ex- 
plained it  always,"  cries  she,  with  a  remorseful  glance  at 
Batty.  "  But  no  one  knew  anything  about  it,  except  Eaton 
Stamer,  and  Evelyn  made  him  promise  to  be  silent.  Her 
name  is  Darling." 

"  Ah  !  "  says  Crawford.  It  is  hardly  an  exclamation-^it 
is  only  a  faint  low  sigh.  This  last  blow,  coming  on  the 
others,  has  Left  him  almost  lifeless.  Her  father !  Her 
father ! 

"She  has  been  a  little  absurd  about  it,  all  along,"  says 
Mrs.  D'Arcy  mournfully.  "  One  would  think  it  was  a 
crime  that  she  had  committed,  or  her  poor  father,  instead 
of  that  miscreant,  who  never  was  brought  to  justice.  But 
she  has  always  been  terribly  sensitive  about  it,  and  she  is  a 
child  that  one  must  give  in  to,  she  is  so  sweet,  and  so  im- 
petuous, and  so  endearing.  Oh  !  when  it  happened — al- 
though she  was  so  young,  only  seven  years  old — it  seemed 
to  crush  her  little  spirit  to  the  earth.  It  would  have  broken 
your  heart  to  see  her  pretty  face.  She  was  too  young, 
surely,  to  have  been  capable  of  feeling  so  acutely ;  yet  she 
suffered  as  certainly  no  child  ever  suffered  before  or  since. 
She  was  motherless,  you  know,  and  she  and  her  poor  father 
were  all  in  all  to  each  other.  He  was  wrapt  up  in  her,  and 
she  in  him.  When  first  the  colonel  brought  her  home  to 
live  with  us,  I  thought  she  was  going  to  die." 

"  Poor  child  !  "  says  Mr.  Blount  gravely. 

"It  was  not  all  grief,  perhaps,  though  that  was  very 
strong.  You  see,"  hesitating,  "  she  had  had  a  fearful  shock. 
It  was  she  who  discovered  the— the  body.  She  was  the  first 
to  enter  the  room  and  see  her  father  lying  dead.  He  was  a 
very  old  man  to  bt  her  father.  He  had  married  late  in  life, 


2*4  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

He  was  lying  as  though  he  had  been  laid  out,  and  the  child 
ran  XTp  to  him  and  looked  down,  and  there  was  some  blood, 
and  it  was  creeping  into  his  parted  lips,"  shuddering-, 
"and " 

"  Stop !  Stop  ! "  cried  Mr.  Crawford,  throwing  up  his  hands, 
and  staggering  back  against  the  wall. 

"Oh  !  if  you  feel  it  so  much  for  her,  what  must  fhe  have 
felt  ?  "  savs  Mrs.  D'Arcy.  She  looks  at  him  in  wonderment. 
How  fond  he  is  of  her  !  How  terribly  fond  !  She  had  heard 
from  Mr.  Vaudrey  and  others  of  his  kindness,  his  sympathy, 
but  that  he  should  feel  like  this  for  another's  grief,  Is  beyond 
any  exprience  she  has  ever  had.  "I  really  think  she  would 
have  died,"  she  goes  on  presently,  "if  it  hadn't  been  for 
Jimmy.  He  was  quite  a  little  fellow  then— a  mere  baby,  and 
she  grew  so  fond  of  him  ;  she  took  him  right  into  her,  as  it 
•were.  I  don't  think  she  is  quite  so  devoted  to  him  now,"  says 
ilrs.  D'Arcy,  with  a  nervous,  little  laugh.  "They  squabble" a 
good  deal ;  "but  just  at  that  time  Jimmy  was  a  mine  of  gold  to 
her." 

"But  why  did  you  change  her  aame?"asks  Blount,  who 
has  been  profoundly  interested. 


it  would  be  a  good  plan  to  adopt  the  nurso'fi  stupidity,  and  so 
separate  Evelyn's  mind  as  much  as  possible  from  her  unhappy 
past.  Besides,"  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy,  "  we  grew  so  fond  of  her, 
that  I  believe  we  liked  to  fancy  our  name  was  hers.  And  by 
degrees,  as  the  servants  were  changed,  all  the  new  one's 
naturally  called  her  Miss  D'Arcy,  that  is  when  she  grew  too 
old  to  be  Miss  Evelyn,  and  so  itbecamea  habit,  and  remained  so." 

"Strange!"  says  Blount.  "To  lose  one's  identity  so  en- 
tirely, to  actually  give  up  one's  name,  must  be  a  singular 
experience." 

"NotsoTery  singular,  after  all.  Not  more  singular  than 
when  a  girl  marries.  She  gives  up  her  own  name  then,  too, 
but  no  one  thinks  anything  about  it.  Mr.  Crawford,  you 
look  very  ill.  Sit  down  there,  and  let  me  get  jrou  a  glass  of 
sheriy." 

"  ]So— no,  thank  you."  He  seems  to  have  a  difficulty  about 
uttering  even  these  few  words.  He  is  still  leaning  against  tho 
wa.ll,  looking  shrunken,  old,  ashen. 

Blouut  once  again  regards  him  curiously.  Is  it  going  to 
be  a  fit—or 

"A  little  brandy,  then?"  says  I-.frs.  D'Arcy,  who  is  growing1 
frightened.  She  casts  an  eager  supplicating  look  at  Batty, 
as  if  desirous  of  his  opinion  as  to  what  is  best  to  be  done  witfe 
tho  pale  .shaken  man  before  her.  It  is  perhaps  the  one  an£ 
only  time  on  record  that  Mr.  Blount's  opinion  h;:s  been  sought 
And  now  in  vain.  His  gaze  is  still  riveted  upon  Crawford. 

As  if  disturbed  by  it,  and  conscious  of  it,  the  latter  rousfc. 
himself. 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSR  f6j 

"Yon  are  very  good— too  good,"  says  he  faintly.  "But— 
nothing,  thank  you.  1  feel  upset,  unnerved.  I  have  an  old 
enemy  —with  a  faint  smile— "that  often  does  battle  with  me, 
and  I  meet  him  best  when  alone.  Yott  will  give  my  love  to 
Evelyn,  and  tell  her  how— how "  He  stops  short  as  if  un- 
able to  complete  his  sentence.  "Teil  her  I  had  to  go." 

"I'll  tell  her  everything-  kind,  you  may  be  sure,  says  Mrs. 
D'Arcy  genially.  And  indeed  if 'he  believes  in  nothing  else, 
he  may  be  quite  sure  of  that.  "But  are  you  equal  to  the 
walk  home  ?  Can  I  not — 

"I  shall  like  the  walk;  the  rain— good-bye "  He 

finishes  his  adieux  with  unconscious  brusqucness— lie  the  ever 
kind  and  gentle— and  leaves  the  room  with  a  strange  abrupt- 
ness. To  Blount  it  suggests  itself  that  the  "old  enemy," 
whatever  it  is.  would  have  taken  possession  of  him  then  and 
there  had  he  remained  a  moment  longer.  The  "old  enemy  " 
—was  it  the  Devil  ? 

Mr.  Blount's  lively  mind  flies  o'er  unknown  spaceless  tracts. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

"  QUEER  fellow.  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  face  ?  "  says  he, 
when  Crawford  has  finally  disappeared  and  the  hall  door  ha? 
been  heard  to  bang  comfortably  and  securely  behind  him. 
"I'm  glad  he's  gone.  He'd  give  one  the  jumps." 

"what  a  heart!  "says  Mrs.  D'Arcy,  who  is  one  of  those 
who  "thinketh  no  evil'."  "I  wish  Evelyn  could  know  how 
ke  felt  for  her,  poor  darling." 

"1  don't.  I  think  she'd  have  been  frightened  out  of  her 
idts.  If  he  had  had  horns  and  the  orthodox  hoof  he'd  have 
been  perfect." 

"Ou  !  Batty,  and  you  who  always  are  so  good  natured." 

"Weil,  better  say  "what  one  thinks  than  tell  a  lie  about  it. 
He  has  the  oddast  way  of  showing  sympathy  that  ever  /  saw. 
When  you  mentioned  the  word  blood  I  thought  ha  was  going- 
to  scream. 

"Some  people  are  singularly  sensitive  about  blood." 

"  Some  people— yes." 

"I  hope  he  will'  get  home  safely  ;  he  looked  terribly  un- 
Btrung." 

"The  rain  will  do  him  good— it  will  cool  him.  He  was  a 
rolcano  when  he  left  this  ;  let  us  hops  he  will  be  burnt  out  be- 
fore he  reaches  the  Grange,  or  I  wouldn't  give  twopence  for 
that  ancestral  spot." 

"  Poor  man  !  I  think  perhaps  I  ought  to  have  ordered  round 
the  colonel's  dog  cart — 

"He's  all  right,"  says  Mr.  Blount  reassuringly.  'His 
fevered  brow  is  now  being  cooled  by  the  most  unpleasant  pro- 
cess I  know,  and  he'll  come  up  to  time  presently,  without  a 
scratch."  He  is  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  : 

"lam  sorry  about  Evelyn.  I  don't  ihiuk  anybody  ever 
heard  ber  story  ;  except  Eaton,  as  you  say." 


•ft  A  LIFE'S  REMORS& 

'•Only  Eaton." 

"  And  why  Eaton  specially  ?  M  with  a  lengthened  glance  at 
her. 

"He  is  such  an  old  friend  of  hers,"  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy,  so 
plainly  without  arrlere  pensee  that  Blount  on  the  spot  acquits 
her. 

"It  isn't  altogether  useful  to  be  an  old  friend  some- 
times." 

"Why?  I  like  old  friends.  An  old  friend  is  like  an  old 
chair.  One  delights  in  it— one  finds  shelter  within  its  kindly 
arms." 

"And  yet  sooner  or  later  it  is  pushed  aside,  relegated  to  the 
garret,  and  a  brand  new  fourteenth  century  article,  shaking 
on  its  ancient  pins,  but  priceless^  takes  its  place." 

"  With  fickle  people  only.''' 

"Is  Evelyn  fickle?"' 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Batty?"  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy,  sitting 
up  suddenly,  with  a  brilliant  flush.  "  Do  you  mean  anything 
about  Evelyn?  Oh  !  no,  there  was  never  anything  between 
her  and  Eaton.  How  often  have  I  wished  that  there  might 
have  been  !  I  was  never  more  disappointed  in  my  life  than 
when  she  accepted  Mr.  Crawford." 

"  No?  "  He  pauses.  ' '  No,  no,  of  course  there  was  nothing. 
And  a  good  thing  too.  I  was  only  romancing,  talking  folly. 
But  I  wish  if  Plutus  iras  to  come  up  this  way  like  spring- 
that  he  had  come  in  other  guise  than  Crawford." 

"  Oh !  I  don't,"  says  Mrs.  D'Arcy.  "  There  was  never  any 
one  so  good  as  Mr.  Crawford.  He  will  adore  her,  and  take 
care  of  lier,  and  grant  her  lightest  wish." 

"She'll  have  had  quite  a  lot  of  names  by  the  time  she  mar- 
ries him,"  says  Batty.  "Darling — D'Arcy— Crawford.  After 
all,  her  own  seems  made  for  her.  It  excels  the  others.  Evelyn 
Darling  !  Darling  Evelyn  !  It's  a  distinctly  reversible  name. 
That's  its  charm  perhaps.  And  it  loses  nothing  by  the  re- 
versing. Perhaps  it  gains  indeed.  At  all  events  it  suits  her 
admirably  either  way.  Happy  girl !  With  such  a  name,  she 
should  never  change'it.  And  for  a  common-place  Crawford 
too  !  By  Jove !  "  going  back  to  his  first  puzzled  manner, 

"  He  is  a  queer  fellow  1 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

Meantime  the  "  queer  fellow  "  has  taken  his  homeward  way 

foing  stoilidly  onwards  through  rain  and  mire,  taking  no 
eecl  of  it,  or  of  anything  that  crosses  his  path— filled  only  with 
a  desire  to  find  shelter,  to  bo  able  to  hide  his  head  where  no 
man  may  see  him. 

Yet  he"  is  so  far  alive  to  this  fresh  misfortune— this  crowning 
misfortune  that  Heavou  has  sent  as  a  last  blight  upon  his  head 
—that  two  words  beat  incessantly  upon  his  brain,  and  keep 
time  to  his  rapid  footsteps  as  life  goes. 

"  Her  father —her  father— her  father !  "  The  very  stones  oa 
the  road  seem  to  cry  them  aloud  ;  the  wild  wind  shrieks  them 
in  his  ears ;  the  road  raiu  drives  tlwm  waafc  ia  fi&ry 
across  his  eyes  1 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  (67 

ft  Is  with  a  groan  of  passionate  relief  that  reaching:  his 
library  he  closes  the  door,  and  flinging  himself,  face  down- 
wards upon  the  table,  his  usual  position,  gives  himself  up  to 
thought.  The  door  is  locked — intruders  are  far  from  him — 
now,  at  last,  he  is  alone  with  this  new  demon  that  relentless 
Fate  has  flung  into  his  path.  How  is  he  to  grapple  with  it? 
Better  give  up  at  onee,  and  let  the  monster  devour  him  as  he 
stands  I 

Of  all  men  in  the  world,  why  should  it  be  her  father?  Was 
he  not  cursed  enough  in  taking  human  life,  in  the  ceaseless 
remorse  that  has  pursued  him  night  and  day,  for  that  one 
mad,  unmeant  crime,  that  now  this  awful  sequence  to  it  should 
be  thrust  upon  him  ?  Oh  !  what  a  vile  revenge.  Is  Heaven 
implacable?  Is  there  a  Heaven?  One  reads  of  it — a  sweet 
place— restful — free  from  guile,  from  cruelty— from  vice  of 
every  sort,  and  yet  it  can  shower  down  out  of  its  greatness,  its 
strength,  such "  tortures  as  these  upon  weak  irresponsible 
man. 

There  are  so  manv  men.  If  the  deed  had  to  be  done — if  he 
was  to  be  so  afflicted"  as  to  be  ordained  as  the  doer  of  the  deed, 
was  not  that  bad  enough  ?  Did  the  kind,  merciful  Heaven  of 
our  fables  go  farther  still  and  ordain  that  the  doer  should  be 
punished  doubly  for  the  deed  in  which  he  was  but  the  actor1 
uncL-r  compulsion  ? 

Compiilsion  !  ay,  that  was  it.  He  had  not  willed  that  old 
man's  death.  Was  he,  then,  responsible  for  it  ?  It  was  a  mere 
shake,  a  knock  of  the  grey  head  upon  the  floor,  an  act  that 
would  scarce  have  slam  a  babe  !  and  yet  murder— so-called— 
was  done. 

He  starts  to  his  feet.  There  is  a  wild  defiance  in  his  eyes. 
No,  he  will  nof  give  in  !  This  persecution  has  gone  far  enough. 
He  will  defy  Fate— Heaven— all  things  !  She  knows  nothing, 
she  need  never  know.  He  will  lay  the  case  before  her— sup- 
posititiously,  of  course— and  by  her  word  he  will  rise  or  fall, 
and  by  no  other.  All  other  allegiance  now  and  for  ever  he 
will  fling  to  the  winds— the  winds  of  that  Heaven  that  has 
blasted  him. 

He  throws  his  arms  upwards  as  though  in  declaration  of  his 
emancipation.  Henceforth,  "Evil  be  thou  my  good." 

She — and  she  alone — shall  decide  for  him — fcr  life  or  death. 
All  is  in  her  hands.  He  will  put  the  case  before  her — an 
imaginary  case— and  watch  her  as  she  answers.  If  she  could 
forgive  for  another,  why,  then  she  could  forgive  for  herself. 
And  yet,  to  make  more  sure,  why.  not  represent  to  her  her 
own  case  ;  tell  her  of  Mrs.  D'Arcy's  revelation  ;  confess  him- 
self aware  that  her  father  had  been— been No  !  He  growg 

savage  here,  and  beats  his  fist  lightly  against  the  window 
frame.  Killed  by  misadventure  !  And,  if  so— if— if  it  were 
proved  to  her  that  the  slayer  of  her  father  had  done  him  to 
death  unknowingly,  could  she  not  then  forgive  ? 

It  is  his  last  chance  :  he,  will  not  fling-  it  aside.  Brushing 
kfce  raindrops  from  Uia  forehead,  he  moves  steadily  across  the 


*6S  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE 

room.  His  eyes  meet  the  clock.  Six  o'clock— so  late !  Hoi? 
many  hours  then  has  he  spent  struggling-  with  his  misery"? 
Hungor  is  so  far  from  him  that  the  thought  of  food  does  not 
suggest  itself. 

He  will  go  to  her  now — now,  this  moment.  The  sooner  the 
better.  Let  him  know  whether  it  is  to  be  life  or  death  before 
the  night  closes  in.  It  is  dark  enough  now,  but,  by  a  miracle, 
as  it  were,  the  rain  has  ceased,  and  a  last  vague,  half-hearted 
suspicion  of  daylight  has  crept  into  the  room. 

Ringing  the  bell,  he  orders  the  dog-cart  round  to  the 
door. 

"  You  will  be  back  to  dinner,  sir  ?  "  asked  the  man  with  a 
respectful  glance,  full  of  suppressed  concern. 

"Yes,  probably." 

"A  glass  of  wine,  sir,  before  you  start?"  lingering,  and 
with  increasing  anxiety  in  his  tone.  His  master's  appearance 
is  causing  him  honest  disturbance. 

"  Well,  yes  !  thank  you;  you  may  bring  me  one,"  says 
Crawford. 

Drinking  the  wine  hastily,  he  springs  into  the  dog-cart  and 
Is  driven  rapidly  away. 


CHAPTER  ML 

"Miss  D'AncYhas  a  headache,  but  I'm  sure  she'll  see  yon, 
sir,"  says  the  neat-handed  Phyllis  who  opens  the  door  for 
Crawford.  She  stares  a  little  at  seeing  him  at  this  hour,  and 
for  the  second  time  to-day.  But,  with  the  talent  for  romance 
that  adorns  her  class,  she  puts  what  she  calls  "  two  and  two" 
together  in  no  time,  and  revels  in  the  niceness  of  her  con- 
struction. 

"  Where  is  she?  "  asks  Crawford. 

"In  the  master's  study,  sir.  She  said  she'd  like  to  be 
alone,  as  'er  'ed  was  so  bad.  Shall  I  tell  her  you're  'ere, 
sir?" 

"  No,"  says  Crawford  shortly .  He  crosses  to  the  hall,  and 
gently  opening  the  door  of  "master's  study" — a  truly  re- 
markable apartment— enters. 

Evelyn,  who  had  been  sitting  by  the  fire,  with  no  other 
light  in  the  room  save  that  cast  by  glowing  c«als,  starts  to 
her  feet  and  comes  quickly  to  him. 

"How  foolish  to  come  out  this  clamp  night,"  says  she. 
"But  it  is  just  like  you  ;  you  knew  I  was  upset,  unhappy, 
and  you  came  to  comfort  me." 

"No  ;  to  gain  comfort,"  says  he  in  a  terribly  sad  voice. 

"  I  know  what  that  means*  To  give  comforfi  is  with  you 
to  gain  it.  Oh  !  you  are  too  good  to  me,"  says  she  with  a 
pang  of  passionate  remorse.  Why — why  can't  she  drive 
from  her  all  memory  of  that  other,  and  give  her  heart  entirely 
to  this  good — this  perfect  man — this  prince  amongst  hia 
fellows  ? 

"I  have  heard  all.    Mrs.  D'Arcy  told  me," says  he,  placiag 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  «4j 

ft  strong-  constraint  upon  himself  and  compelling-  his  fafntin* 
spirit  to  touch  lightly  on  the  one  horrible  fact  that  has  kid 
bis  life  to  ruins. 

"Yes;  I  know.  And  perhaps,"  says  she,  looking  up  at 
him  in  the  flaming  firelight,  "you  dislike  what  she  told  you 
—yon  shrink  from  the  daughter  of  a  man  who  had  been— 
murdered."  She  shudders  perceptibly. 

Crawford  lays  his  hand  upon  the  back  of  the  chair  next 
him.  It  is  perhaps  as  well  that  she  cannot  clearly  see  the 
workings  of  his  countenance.  He  to  shrink  from  herl 
Heaven  !  if  she  only  knew  how  he  does  shrink  !  and  why  ! 
And  if  she  knew  all,  how  she  would  shrink  from  him,  with 
fear — with  horror  unspeakable. 

"  You  do  not  speak,"  says  she  sadly.  "Well,  I  don't  won- 
der. It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  to  have  a  horrible 
thing  like  that  connected  with  one,  must  shock  people.  I 
couldn't  bear  to  have  it  talked  about.  Kifcty  has  been  very 
good  about  it.  And  you  see,"  with  growing  melancholy,  "I 

was  right  about  it.    You  know   it    now,  and  no> "  she 

breaks  off  suddenly.  "Oh!  it  has  blighted  all  nay  life," 
cries  she  with  nervous  passion. 

If  she  had  but  known  how  each  word  of  hers  stabs  the  man 
standing  beside  her  !  He  is  thankful  for  the  dull  light  that 
veils  his  features  and  hides  from  her  his  pallor — glad,  too, 
for  the  first  time,  that  she  has  covered  her  face  with  her  hands 
and  so  hidden  it  from  him.  It  has  been  given  to  him  then 
to  blight  her  life  ! 

"  You  take  an  entirely  wrong  view  of  it,"  says  he  in  a  dull 
sort  of  way.  Indeed  he  scarcely  knows  what  he  says.  "You 

think  that  I — I "    His  voice  dies  away  altogether.    It  is 

impossible  to  say  anything  about  that.  "  One  can  feel 
nothing  for  you  save  griei:,  pity,  remorse — — "  He  drags 
himself  up  sharply— a  wrong  word  surely. 

"Remorse  !  There  is  but  one  person  who  should  feel  that," 
sajTs  Evelyn:  "the  man  who  killed  my  father." 

"  And  he  felt  it?"  says  Crawford,  drawing  nearer  to  her, 
but  not  attempting  to  take  the  smaH  pretty  hand  that  hangs 
so  listlessly  at  her  side. 

"  Well?"  says  she,  turning  her  face  to  his,  as  though  wait- 
ing for  his  reply.  Her  tone  was  hardened  ;  as  the  lirelight 
flames  up  and  shows  her  face  he  can  see  that  it  is  cold  and 
stern  and  unforgiving. 

"  Remorse  is  a  terrible  thing,"  says  Crawford  slowly, 
is  the  worm  that  never  dieth.  It  gaaws  for  erer.  Death  is 
a  small  thing  !  We  are  here,  we  are  gone.  The  sudden  ceas- 
ing is  so  slight  a  thing  that  we  scarce  know  of  it.  But  to  still 
live,  and  still  be  always  dying— to  endure  the  death-pang 
daily— hourly,  there  is  anguish  truly— the  fire  that  never  is 
quenched." 

"Death  for  him  who  dies  is  a  small  thing,  perhaps,  but  how 
for  those  he  leaves  behind  him?  Is  it  so  small  a  thing  for 
them  ?  How  of  their  grief,  their  never-ceasing  ^n^ret— theit 
shuddering1  recalling  of " 


»70  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

She  trembles  and  sinks  into  a  chair ;  but,  though  her  bod» 
Jas  grown  weak  in  this  moment  of  remembrance,  her  beauti- 
ful face  still  retains  its  expression  of  relentless  anger. 
There  is  such  a  virtue  as  mercy." 

"Did  he  show  mercy  ?  " 

''No— no,  truly —and  yet  he  did  not  mean  porhaps  to— kill— " 
Oh,  who  shall  say  that  ?  It  is  easy  for  those  who  are  out- 
side  the  pale  of  it  to  talk  lightly  of  a  wrong-  like  mine  '  Every 
see  ean  master  a  grief  but  he  that  has  it.'  And  my  father ! 
An  old  man,  they  tell  me— though  he  never  seemed  old  to  me- 
the  gentlest  soul  alive— the  most  loving.  After  all  these  vears 
I  still  feel  in  my  heart  the  tender  words,  the  soft,  sweet  names 
by  which  he  called  me.  He  never  wronged  a  man— yet  some 
man  slew  o^m-vsome  devil,  rather  !  "  She  has  risen,  and  a 
very  passion  a  revenge  is  quickly  stirring  in  her.  "You 
speak  to  me  of  meroj  -to  me.  1  tell  you  tho  poignancy  of  my 
grief  is  added  to  by  the  knowledge  that  now  all  hope  of  briiur- 
ing  his  murderer  to  justice  is  at  an  end." 

"  Why  should  it  be  ?  "  cries  he.  < « Any  day  you  may  meet 
him  face  to  face  ! "  As  he  says  this  the  strange,  wild  strain 
that  lies  in  him,  and  that  can  change  him  from  saint  to  demon 
at  a  breath  awakes  within  him  ;  he  bursts  into  loud  laughter 
Oh  !  that  I  might !  "  cries  the  girl  feverishly.  "That  / 
might  be  the  one  to  give  him  up  to  a  just  judge.  You  think 
me  cruel,  harsh,  unfeminine  ;  but  it  was  so  wanton  a  crime  so 
uncalled  for,  to  put  out  that  gentle  life,  to  silence  that  kindly 
spirit,  that  had  no  word  but  good  for  any  one." 

"  If— if,  however,  it  could  be  proved  to  you  that  is  was  as 
accident— a  deed  committed  in  haste— unmeant— and  after- 
wards repented  of "  His  voice  is  hoarse,  scarcely  audible 

'  Eepanted  of  as  was  never  crime  before.  How  then  ? 
There  would  be  forginess  then,  Evelyn  !     Then  I  "    He  has 

f  rasped  the  mantelpiece  with  one  hand  and  is  shakin°-  from 
ead  to  foot.      '  Say  it.    Say  it !  "  entreats  he  in  a  dying  tone 
"Never  ! '»  -cries  she  vehemently.    «  Coward  !  dastard !  to 

ill  a  man  old  and  enfeebled.  Never,  I  tell  you  !  "  She  is  too 
agitated  herself  to  take  any  notice  of  the  emotion  that  has 
mastered  him.  "  And  you— you,"  exclaims  she  with  passion- 
ate reproach,  "  why  should  you  take  his  part  ?  If  you  dread  to 
marry  a  girl  whose  longing  for  revenge  on  her  father's  mur- 
derer is  eternal,  why,"  impetuously,  ''the  road  is  open  to  you 
to  escape." 

"  It  is  not  that,"  says  he  faintly.  The  last  dull  spark  of  hope 
has  gone  out,  the  hearth  is  black  and  cold. 

"No  !  How  could  I  so  misjudge  you  !  "  cries  she,  bursting- 
into  tears.  I  know  well  how  it  is  with  you.  You,  with  vour 
sweet  charity  for  all  men,  would  even  condone  this  worst  of 
crimes— would  seek  forgiveness -for  the  author  of  it.  But  I  am 
not  like  you.  I  oould  never  be  as  good  as  you  are— much  as 
it  may  grieve  you.  I  must  make  you  understand  that  if  I 
lived  for  a  hundred  years  I  should  still  cry  aloud  for  vengeance 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE,  271 

"  So— Is  it  so  ?  "  says  he  in  a  voice  so  low,  so  strangely  quiet, 
that  it  acts  on  her  like  a  sudden  rush  o  told  air.  Her  vehe- 
mence dies  from  her.  He  is  sorry  tor  her  perhaps— a  littla 
grieved  she  should  be  of  So  unforgiving  a  spirit." 

"You  feel  disillusionized,"  says  she  sorrowfully.  "You 
know  I  often  told  you  I  was  not  so  desirable  a  person  as  you 
thouo-ht  me. " 

'*  If  I  had  been  that  man— that  murderer,"  says  he  irrele- 
vantly as  it  seems  to  her.  His  eyes  are  fixed  "with  a  most 
touching  melancholy  upon  hers.  Sad  he  heard  her  last 
words  ? 

"Oh!  why  discuss  the  impossible?"  returns  she  with  a 
little  gesture  that  would  have  waved  the  thought  aside 

"  But  if  I  had  been,"  persistently.  His  voice  is  as  that  of  a 
dying  man,  and  indeed  death  is  fast  closing  in  upon  him. 
This  is  his  last  throw,  his  final  effort  to  vanquish  the  dread 
shadow  that  for  ten  long  years  has  brooded  over  him,  crushing 
out  light  and  freedom  and  the  quick  joy  of  living. 

She  is  struck  once  again  by  his  wonderful  quietude  ;  but, 
then,  he  is  always  quiet.  It  is  but  a  deeper  phase  of  his  usual 
manner.  Great  heaven  !  If  she  could  but  nave  looked  into 
his  heart  and  read  there  the  wild  storm  of  impatience  that  is 
almost  rending  soul  from  body  as  he  hangs  upon  her  answer, 
how  would  it  have  been  with  her? — with  him?  Would  there 
have  been  anger  shown— and  a  sharp  revulsion?  a  horror 
hardly  to  be  described?  or  pity— puresi  of  virtues?  or  mercy — 
thedivinest? 

"  No— no.  Why  ask  the  question  ?  "  asked  she,  shrinking 
from  the  bare  idea  of  connecting  him  in  any  way,  even  in  an 
idle  moment,  with  the  one  being  whom  in  all  her  kindly  life 
she  has  hated. 

"  But  if  I  had  been  that  man  ! "  repeats  he  with  a  determin- 
ation that  has  something  of  madness  in  it.  His  tone  is  even 
lower  now,  his  face  more  impassive.  Within  the  storm  is 
raging  with  a  deadlier  force  Evelyn  shrugs  hers  boulders  im- 
patiently. 

"Why,  if  you  will  have  it,"  says  she  vexed  with  him  for 
whatstsemsa  triviality  to  her,  "I  should  loathe  you  as  you 
would  deserve  to  be  loathed.  Not  all  your  kindness,  all  your 
love  for  me,  could  quench  my  hatred  or  gain  a  pardon  for 
you.  I  should  crusn  yr>u  as  though " 

The  words  seem  to  die  upon  her  lips.  Tears  tremble  in  her 
lovely  eyes.  For  the  first  time  in  all  their  short  acquaint- 
ance "she  runs  to  him  and  throws  her  arms  around  him.  There 
is  affection  as  well  as  repentance  in  her  action. 

"How  can  I  talk  to  you  like  this?"  cries  she  remorsefully. 
"It  is  quite,  quite  true  what  I  have  said  ;  but  then,  why  make 
me  say  it  ?  I  am  a  horrid  girl  to  speak  to  you  thus  harshly— 
you,  who  have  been  so  good  to  me,  who  saved  me  from  great 
great  grief,  wno  saved  my  life.'" 

His  arms  cluse  around  her.  Convulsivel\r  he  holds  her  to 
him,  ben4**£  his  bead  until  his  lips  meet  her  soft  brown  hair. 


*7*  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

Oh  !  pretty  head  !    Oh  !  little  tender  iove !    Oh  !  just 
but  merciless  ! 

It  is  but  for  a  moment  he  holds  her  so.  It  is  an  eternal 
farewell,  and  brief,  but  full,  as  eternity  itself.  And  now  a 
deadly  chill  has  seized  upon  the  heart  against  which  he  had 
pressed  her  with  such  a  passion  of  despair. 

He  releases  her,  almost  repulses  her.  If  she  knew  would 
she  suffer  his  embrace,  would  she  not  rather  thrust  a  dagger 
into  the  breast  on  which  but  now  she  lay  ? 

Well— well— well. 

All  at  once  a  curious  sense  of  indifference  falls  on  him.  A 
flame,  flaring  up  vigorously,  reveals  his  features  to  the  girl 
and  accentuates  the  utter  stillness  of  them.  A  moment  ago, 
and  the>  pressure  of  his  arms  had  scorned  to  assure  her  of  hia 

love  for  her,  and  now Oh  !  if  she  might  understand  him 

better — might  learn  to  grow  to  him  in  all  things  good— the 
only  things  that  he  could  ever  teach  her. 

The  girl's  unconsciousness  is  blessed,  but  nevertheless  cruel. 
Jf  she  could  have  known,  perhaps,  perhaps,  out  of  the  sweet- 
ness of  her  nature,  she  might  have  given  him  in  time,  not 
what  he  first  sought,  indeed,  but  a  gentle  pardon,  an  absolu- 
tion born  of  many  tears,  a  little  gracious  outstretched  hand 
that  might  have  healed  his  broken  heart  and  led  him  heaven- 
ward. 

But  she  knows  nothing.  To  her  his  strange  attitude,  so 
curiously  still,  betrays  no  smallest  grain  of  the  truth.  She 
wonders  at  him,  that  is  all.  How  can  she  tell  that  this  sudden 
calm  that  has  fallen  on  him  is  the  beginning  of  the  end.  That 
life,  for  him,  is  virtually  over.  That  longing,  and  grief,  and 
despair,  and  the  cruel  restlessness  of  uncertainty  are  done 
with  for  ever,  He  stands  there  stunned— hopeless— his  face 
is  passionless.  One  last  thought  is  clear  within  his  mind.  1$ 
some  odd  way  it  penetrates  the  gloom  that  is  fast  gathering 
round  him,  and  pleases  him.  Her  last  dear  words,  what  were 
they  ? 

"  You,  who  saved  my  life." 

Ay,  tmly  !  If  he  had  taken  her  father's  life,  he  had  give» 
her  "back  hers.  That  should  count.  In  a  dull  sort  of  way 
he  tries  to  argue  this  out  to  his  advantage,  but  failing,  falls 
back  upon  the  knowledge  that  the  sooner  b.e  gets 'Way, 
and 

Yes,  yes.     What  is  there  to  delay  for? 

He  is"  conscious  of  a  little  feeling  of  impatience.  Ytrt  tie 
had  saved  her  life  !  A  yoxing,  fresh  life  is  surely  worth  two  of 
any  old  life— old  life  I  An  old  man— old  man 

"  Good  bye  !  " 

He  wakes  up  abruptly  from  his  terrible  dreaming  to  find 
himself  bidding  Evelyn  good-night.  Has  he  said  anything 
eince— any  thing  strange  Y  He  cannot  remember. 

"Good-bye,"  says  she  in  her  own  pretty,  gentle  way  that 
of  late  has  grown  so  quiet.    "  Shall  1  eonie  to  the  door 
you?" 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  873 

In  a  dream  still,  he  makes  a  gesture  of  refusal. 

"No."  Hfs  tone  is  decisive;  and  Evelyn,  trying  to  see 
him  through  tho  gloom  of  the  firelight  as  he  g-oes  to  the  door, 
ptands  still,  puzzled,  uncertain. 

At  the  door  he  pauses  and  looks  back  at  her. 

"Good-bye  !"  says  he  again.  Something  in  his  tone  (his 
taco  is  now  hidden  from  her  because  of  the  darkness)  touches 
and  frightens  her. 

"  You  will  come  back  to-morrow?  "  cried  she  eagerly,  mak- 
ing- a  step  towards  him. 

"  Not  to-morrow  !  "  There  is  a  dull  certainty  in  his  tone. 
A  moment  later  the  door  has  closed.  He  is  gone. 

CHAPTER  LIH. 

THE  chill  air  outside  revives  his  body,  but  gives  no  health 
to  his  mind.     In  the  same  chilled,  numbed  fashion,   it  r 
t©  answer  to  any  call  on  it,  being  conscious  only  of  the  desire 
for  solitude — for  home— for  the  locked  door  of  the  library,   Be- 
hind Avhich  it  may  be  done. 

This  desire — the  desire  (restrained)  of  many  years— gains 
full  sway  now,  and  in  the  diseased  brain  of  this  man,  trudg- 
ing homeward  through  the  mud  and  slush  (forgetful  of  ths 
dog-cart  that  had  brought  him,  and  that  now  stands  awaiting 
his  orders  in  the  yurd  at  Firgrove),  grows  to  gigantic  pro- 
portions, and  tills  him  with  a  coming  sense  of  delight  long  de- 
layed. All  other  thoughts  give  way  to  it.  Life,  Love,  Pleas- 
ure, Ambition — what  have  they  to  offer  that  can  compete  with 
the  charm  of  Oblivion  ! 

The  house  is  gained  ;  the  library  reached  ;  the  drawer  un- 
locked. He  stops  a  moment ! 

It  lies  before  him  now,  in  the  palm  of  his  hand.  Such  an 
inconsequent  thing  !  A  mere  dusty  substance  that  a  breath, 
blowing  upon  it,  might  easily  reduce  to  nothingness — if  such 
a  great  void  be— and  yet  possessed  of  power  that  larger 
things  might  envy. 

She  had  said  she  would  be  revenged  on  him.  If  she  knew  ! 
Well,  without  knowing,  she  shall  be  revenged  !  The  utmost 
she  could  do  would  be  to  exact  a  life  for  a  Hie,  and  the  utmost 
shall  be  hers  !  It  is  as  well,  too— as  well !  In  spite  of  all  tha 
mad  fancies— born  of  her  sweet  face — was  happiness  possible 
to  him?  Other  people  might  be  strong  enough  to  weather 
such  life  storms  as  ho  had  known,  but  was  he  one  of  them? 
He  who  had  been  broken,  spent,  and  crushed  against  the 
rocks  and  jagged  edges  of  life,  even  before  youth  was  at  an 
end  ? 

All  this  in  a  disjointed  way  came  to  him,  and  caused  him  to 
feel  a  sort  of  distant  pity  for  himself — regarded  as  another. 

And  with  this  came  vaguer  thoughts  that  still  did  not  deter 
him  from  his  purpose,  but  had,  all  of'  them,  a  strange  sweet 
attraction  in  them  —sweet  almost  as  she  was  !  Aud  since  ha 
could  not  have  her,  why 


a?4  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

They  toss  him  to  and  fro  and  play  with  his  dwarfed  mind  ai 
though,  with  a  malignant  desire  to  add  to  the  poignancy  of  his 
ir,  and  always  (strange  inconsistency  !)  they  draw  him 
towards  them. 

"  D^-ath  is  darkness,"  cry  they.     "In  the  grave  there  is  no 
light."    And  again,  "Worms  destroy  memory." 
->rn  ! 

He  shifts  the  tiny  powder  (that  shines  like  a  crushed 
diamond)  from  the  paper  that  holds  it,  into  a  wine  glass  at  his 
elbow.  His  dulled  mind  wanders  from  the  present  moment 
to  another,  when  he  had  gained  this  powder  from  an  Arab 
sheik,  not  by  strategem  or  intrigue,  or  for  love  of  money,  but 
through  love  of  him— Crawford.  They  had  loved  him,  'thode 
poor  proud  souls  over  there. 

It  had  a  special  power,  a  special  charm— this  gift  of  the  old 

Arab,  who  had  adored  Crawford,  not  only  for  service  done 

:  h  Crawford  had  rescued  his  son  from  a  disgraceful 

death),  but  because  of  a  strong  friendship  for  him,  that  had 

arisen  at  iirst  sight  and  had  grown  with  knowledge  of  him. 

A  little  light,  sparkling  powder,  bub  it  could  kill,  without 
fear  of  after  consequences.  No  one,  when  it  had  done  its 
work,  wonkl  know  where  the  subtlety  of  it  lay.  No  mark 
would  betray  its  presence.  The  body  would  lie  there  cold  and 
still,  defiantof  criticism.  The  sheik,  who  loved  not  his  ene- 
mies—who was  indeed  always  at  war  with  them,  and  who 
would  gladly  have  had  the  destroying  of  them  at  any 
moment —was  desirous  that  Crawford  should  at  all  times  be 
enabled  to  cry  quits  with  /H'.S-  / 

liaising  a  caraffe  at  his  elbow,  Crawford  with  a  steady  hand, 
pours  some  water  upon  the  tiny  crystals  in  the  glass.  A 
moment  they  bubble,  foam  upwards,  and  then  die.  Crawford, 
raising  the  glass,  drains  it.  A  moment  later,  and  he  too,  like 

those  bubbles — perishes  I 

*  #  * 

The  servants,  frightened,  had  burst  open  the  door  at  last. 
They  had  found  him  in  his  usual  position— his  arms  spread 
upon  the  table,  his  head  lying  on  them.  It  was  all  so  natural 
that  their  u'rst  impulse  was  to  retreat  again,  and  discuss  the 
best  means  of  gaining  his  pardon  for  their  rash  intrusion. 
Then  the  all-powerful  silence  of  death  filled  them,  and  con 
vinced  them  that  their  fears  had  not  been  groundless. 

One  of  them  went  forward,  and  with  shaking-  hands  lifted 
his  master  ;  one  gaze  into  that  pale  countenance  was  enough. 
Crawford  was  indeed  dead.  The  man  settled  him  back  in 
his  chair,  most  carefully  as  if  with  a  view  to  his  comfort,  and 
then— as  if  struck  by  the  futility  of  his  action  —burst  into 
tears. 

Yes.  He  was  dead.  Gone  past  recall.  He  had  closed  his 
last  account  with  life  and  from  henceforth  would  owe  no  man 
anything,  .save  the  debt  of  kindly  remembrance. 

And  many  paid  him  that  way.  It  was  odd  how  great  a  num- 
ber woke  to  the  fact  that  he  had  been  dear  to  them,  when  lie 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  «7S 

was  beyond  their  power  to  tell  him  of  their  affection.  He  had 
been  good  to  so  many — so  gentle  to  all.  Was  there  one  harsh 
word  he  had  uttered  since  he  came  amongst  them  ?  If  there 
was,  no  one  could  call  it  to  mind.  A  sad  man— depressed, 
and  evidently  a  prey  to  melancholia — he  had  gone  through 
their  midst,  with  a  helping  hand  outstretched,  and  a  kindly 
word,  or  a  conciliatory  or  a  pleading  word,  for  everybody. 

The  poor  missed  hi  in  ! 

Consternation  reigned  in  Fenton-by-Sea.  Evelyn  gave  \vay 
to  wild  and  almost  hurtful  grief.  There  was  remorse  at  her 
heart,  that  burned,  and  gave  her  no  rest.  Oh  !  that  last  even- 
ing! when  he  had  said  good-bye.  Why  had  she  not  kept 
him  with  her— instead  of  letting  him  go  coldly,  with  just  a 
frugal  word  here,  an  unloving  smile  there?  She  should  have 
kiwmi  that  he  was  ill ! 

Heart  disease  I  said  the  local  doctor  after  an  examination 
that  seemed  to  puz/Je  him  slightly.  There  was  strange, 
symptoms,  so  very  unimportant  that  he  was  enabled  to 
call  the  cause  of  death  "  Weak  action  of  the  heart,"  with  a 
clear  conscience.  After  all,  no  two  men's  constitution  was  the 
same,  as  no  two  men's  noses  were  alike  ;  and  if  there  was 
some  vague  difference  in  this  death  from  heart  disease  to  those 
others  known  to  him,  why  sciences  of  all  kinds  were  now  but 
in  their  birth,  and  thorough  development  and  knowledge  was 
for  those  years  that  should  have  forgotten  his  dead  bones.  So 
thought  the  doctor,  and  as  he  was  a  clever  man,  and  a  power 
in  his  way,  so  thought  all  Fenton-by-Sea. 

The  funeral  was  unusually  large.  All  the  county  followed 
the  dead  body  of  Crawford.  The  exclusive  county,  who 
scarcely  thought  any  one  who  had  not  been  born  and  bred 
amongst  them  for  generations  worth  a  condescending  nod. 
Devils  might  have  laughed  as  they  watched  these  sedate 
county  folk  marching  in  their  carriages  behind  the  carriage 
that  contained  the  corpse  of  the  murderer,  the  suicide— the 
carriage  commonlv  known  as  a  hearse.  In  Ins  life  crime  had 
dishonoured  him— in  his  death  men  showed  him  all  honour. 

He  was  lowered  into  his  grave  amidst  a  dead  and  impressive 
gileHce,  broken  towards  the  end  by  the  sobs  of  some  poor 
women  to  whom  his  bounties  had  meant  life.  He  was  gone  ! 
Their  benefactor— their  one  hope— their  earthly  saviour. 
How  were  they  to  exist  without  him  ?  Mr.  Vaudrey,  reading 
the  burial  service  in  a  very  uncertain  tone,  grew  even  more 
uncertain  as  these  mournful  sobs  reached  him.  Alas  !  poor 
souls  !  How  could  he  supply  the  place  of  the  good  man  gone 
— the  rich  man  gone  ? 

Yet  the  rich  good  man  in  g^oing  had  remembered.  His  will 
left  much  to  the  poor  of  Fenton-by-Sea. 

He  could  not  know  that,  then,  and  he  read  the  service  with 
a  deep  and  honest  grief  at  his  heart—  grief  for  Crawford,  whom 
he  had  learned  to  love  and  rely  upon  for  his  beloved  poor, 
and  grief  for  his  poor  thus  bereaved. 

His  voice  quavwed  and  shook  as  he  went  oft. 


37$  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

"  In  sure  and  certain  hope." 

Beautiful  words !  But  vain  !  Yet  never  had  Mr.  Vaudrey 
read  this  solemn  service  with  so  satisfactory  a  belief  in  the 
truth  of  it.  As  the  black  coffin  was  lowered  into  tho  grave, 
containing-  a  secret  blacker  than  itself,  and  holding1  it  grimly 
for  all  time,  no  smallest  revelation  of  that  secret  sways  the 
»ir  or  blanches  the  faces  of  the  mourners. 

Earth  gave  the  slayer — earth  takes  back .  Within  her  bosom 
his  dread  crime  will  lie,  unknown,  until  t«hat  awful  clay  when 
the  secrets  of  all  men  shall  be  revealed  ! 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

EATON  STAMER,  leaving-  the  churchyard  directly  after  the 
funeral,  takes  his  way  to  Firgrove  and  asks  if  Miss  D'Arcy  is 
at  home. 

"Yes,  sir." 

Can  she  see  him  ? 

"  I'm  not  sure,  sir,"  hesitating1,  and  with  an  evident  desire 
to  help  him  if  possible.  "I'll  ask  her.  Miss  D'Arcy  has 
aeon  no  one,  sir,  since— since " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  says  Stamer,  rather  depressed. 

"But  she's  in  the  schoolroom,  sir,  and  all  the  children  are 
out.  And  I  think  it  might  cheer  her  up  like  if  she  could  get 
talking-  to  somebody." 

"Well,  I'll  try,"  says  Stamer,  feeling-  rather  cheered-up- 
like  himself  becausa  of  the  cheerful  maid's  suggestion.  He 
squeezes  something  gratefully  into  her  palm  and  makes  his 
way  to  the  schoolroom. 

"  You  aren't  angry  with  me  for  coming,  Evelyn?  "  says  he 
hastily,  as  the  slight"  figure  in  deep  mourning  rises  from  her 
chair  to  meet  him. 

"Oh,  no,"  cried  she,  going  quickly  towards  him,  and  with 
evident  pleasure  in  her  greeting.  It  is  so  evident,  indeed, 
that  something-  else  occurs  to  him  and  damps  his  rising 
spirit. 

"  You  aren't  angry  because  I  didn't  come  before,  are  you?  '* 
asks  he  anxiously. 

"Not  at  all— not  at  all,"  says  she,  shaking  her  head  to  em- 
phasize her  assurance.  "  Only .  I  have  seen  nobody  but 

Marian  and  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  and .  Of  course  you  Vere 

quite  right  not  to  come !  " 

This  naive  statement  he  receives  in  a  proper  spirit.  In 
truth,  she  looks  so  pale,  so  sad,  and  her  lids  are  so  suspiciously 
pink,  that  to  argue  with  her  would  have  been  cruel— to  ex- 
plain herself  to  nerself,  brutal  ! 

"  That's  what  I  thought !  "  says  he  gravely.  He  has  taken 
her  hand  and  pressed  it.  He  is  very  duly  impressed  both  by 
the  occasion  and  her  sorrowful  face,  but,'  through  all,  there  is 
a  latent  jealousy  about  the  deep  mourning  she  is  wearing-. 
Gradually  he  grows  conscious  of  his  unworthy  jealousy,  and 
strives  valiantly  to  get  the  better  of  it. 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  277 

M  Poor  fellow ! "  says  he  in  a  low  tone  replete  with  forced 
feeling. 

Long1  pause. 

"You  didn't  like  him,"  says  Miss  D'Arcy  at  last,  not  with  so 
much  reproach  as  conviction. 

"  I  hardly  know  why  you  say  that.  I  had  few  opportunities 
of  improving1  his  acquaintance"  and,  of  course,  I  was  thereffcre 
a  little  out  of  it,  but  Mr.  Vaudrey  told  me  a  great  deal.  Ho 
was  evidently  full  of  charity.  By-the-bye,  Vaudrey  and  Bert- 
ram have  gone  back  to  the  Grange  with  that  lawyer  fellow 
who  came  down  to  the  funeral.  Not  a  relation  turned  up,  and 
his  lawyer  was  anxious  that  some  one  should  hear  the  will 
read.  Though  I  can't  see  how  it  could  concern-  Vaudrey  or 
Bertram,  unless,  indeed,  he  left  a  legacy  to  Vaudrey  to  be  used 
for  the  benefit  of  the  poor  of  the  parish." 

"That  would  be  very  like  him,"  says  Evelyn  in  a  low 
moved  tone. 

"Yes — ye-es — I  think  so,"  with  an  evident  determination  to 
be  just  to  the  dead,  at  all  hazards.  "  I  confess,  Evelvn,  I 
sometimes  thought  him  a  little  queer  in  many  ways — I  used 
even  to  think  that  he  had  something  to  conceal— something  to 

ato: iy  for— that  he  had  committed  some "    He  comes  to  a 

full  stop  here,  warned  by  her  eyes. 

44  You  were  always  unjust  to  him,"  says  she  sadly. 

"  I  suppose  so."  meekly. 

"You  didn't  understand  him.    That  was  it." 

"Well,  no— we  didu't  hit  it  off,"  meekly. 

"You  saw  nothing  out  of  the  common  in  him,  yet  he  was 
the  most  gentle,  the  most  delicate— the  best  man  on  earth." 

This  is  sweeping;  Captain  Stamer  very  naturally  feels 
affronted. 

"  Well,  you  don't  know  them  all,  you  .knew,"  says  he. 

"I  knew  him,  at  all  events,  "says  she  with  steady  persist- 
ency. "  And  I  dont  believe,  if  there  are  any,  that  there  are 
many  like  him.  I  don't  think  he  had  a  fault." 

She  burst  into  tears.  Truly,  this  afl'ectionate  respect  he  had 
aroused  in  her — of  all  living  women— should  have  gone  far  to 
wash  out  the  shameful  stain  that  dyed  the  dead  man's  soul. 
And  yet— had  she  but  known  all— how  she  would  have  loathed 
his  memory  I  Yet  Crawford,  as  she  saw  him,  was  estim- 
able. 

"You  loved  him,"  says  Stamer  in  a  subdued  voice,  touched 
by  her  grief. 

"  It  is  true.    I  did  love  him,"  says  she  courageously, 
waa  not  in  love  with  him  as  the  phrase  goes,  but  I  was  fonder 

of  him  than  I  knew  myself,  until .     He  was  the  kindest, 

dearest  man.     Oh  ! "  with  a  long,  long  sigh,  "I  have  lost  a 
friend,  indeed  ! " 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  vaguely.  "  I  wonder  who  the  heir  will 
be — what  s&rt  of  fellow,  I  mean." 

"  I  never  heard  him  speak  of  any  of  his  people.  I  think  he 
had  no  relations." 


S7«  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

"  Every  man  has  relations,  be  the  same  more  or  less  dis* 
reputable  or  otherwise.  I  daresay,"  idly,  and  glad  to  lead  he* 
thoughts  abroad,  "he'll  turn  up  one  of  these  days." 

"Who?  The  heir?  But  why  wasn't  he  at  the— there— to. 
day?" 

"In  Kamtschatka  probably,  or  at  the  North  Pole— or  trying 
«0  cheat  winter  in  Cadelgo.  One  can't  be  sure,  as  we  never 
beard  of  him,  and  you  see  it  would  greatly  depend  on  whether 
his  lungs  were  deiicate,  or  whether  his  liver  was  in  a  satis- 
factory state.  We  know  nothing,  you  see,  as  poor  Crawford 
was  hardly  what  one  would  call  a  babbler. " 

"No.    He  was  very  dignified  ! " 

"Very  secretive  !  "That  sort  of  person  always  is— I  mean- 
er"— seeing  he  is  treading  on  dangerous  gr/und — "he  never 
cared  to  say  anything  that  was  better  left  unsaid." 

Miss  D'Arcy  regards  him  carefully  for  a  moment. 

"You  are  right,"  savs  she  then.  " He  had  great  tact.  Ha 
was  never  guilty  of  nurting  the  feelings  of  (inn  >mc.  But 
what  has  all  this  to  do  with  his  heir?  He  need  not  kave  been 
secretive,  as  you  call  it."  reproachfully,  "about  him." 

"Of  course  not,"  hastily.  "The  fact  is,  few  fellows  like 
talking  about  their  successors." 

"Yes,  that's  true.  It  is  very  natural— it  is  nothing  to  won- 
der at  !"  hastily,  and  as  if  decrying  the  thought  that  Crawford 
had  been  guilty  of  any  petty  feeling.  "  I  wonder — who  ever  ha 
is— if  he  will  live  at  the  Grange." 

"Crawford  has  two  or  three  places,"  say  sStamer,  regai-ding 
her  intently.  Is  she  sorry  for  the  Grange  ;  regretful  of  th& 
sad  fate  that  has  killed  her  chance  of  being  mistress  of  it? 
"The  new  man  may  not  care  for  so  remote  a  place  as  this." 

"  No.    It  is  a  beautiful  place  however." 

He  turns  to  her. 

"Are  you  thinking,"  says  he  directly,  "that  it  might  hava 
been  yours  ?  " 

She  shrinks  from  him  as  though  he  had  struck  her,  and  the 
crimson  blood  flies  to  her  face.  She  lays  her  hand  on  the  back 
of  the  chair  near  her,  as  if  seeking  its  support,  but  her  lip» 
and  voice  are  steady  as  she  answers  him. 

"I  have  been  thinking  that  all  day,"  says  she  calmly. 
"  But  not  with  regret— as  you  imagine." 

Stamcr  walks  to  the  window  and  back  again. 

" Forgive  me,"  says  he,  standing  before  her,  and  looking1 
down  into  her  offended  eyes.  "I  should  not  have  said  that,  I 
know!  But " 

He  pauses,  walks  over  to  the  window  again,  and  stands 
there,  gazing  with  unseeing  eyes  upon  the  dismal  winter  land- 
scape outside.  Then  he  turns^  and  reaching  the  table  nearest 
her,  leans  against  it,  staring1  at  her  with  the  frowning1  brows 
of  perplexity. 

"  Evelyn  !  "  says  he  at  last,  abruptly. 

"  Yes?  "  starting  out  of  her  listless  attitude,  to  stare  at  ki« 
in  turn. 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  W 

"  I'm  going  away  to-morrow  night— to  rejoin  my  regiment 
to  Dublin.  I—.  You  remember  the  last  time  I  went  ?  " 

"Yes,  "faintly. 

"  I  can't  go  away  like  that  again,  Evelyn.  You  will  think 
me  selfish,  unfeeling1,  almost  indecent,  but  I  must  speak  to  you 
before  1  go.  That  last  time— if  I  had  spoken  then " 

He  grows  silent,  and  the  girl's  face  changes  from  red  to 
white.  Ah,  if  only  he  had  spoken  !  What  miserable  hours 
might  have  been  dropped  out  of  her  life  !  Her  hands  tighten 
their  hold  upon  each  other,  her  downcast  eyes  grow  mil  of 
tears. 

"That  was  a  mistake,"  sa3rs  the  young  man  nervously.  "I 
fear  to  repeat  it.  Let  us  have  no  more  mistakes  between  us, 
you  and  I.  I  told  myself  yesterday  that  it  would  be  a  horrible 
thing  to  come  to  you  to-day  with  a  tale  of  love  upon  my  lips, 

when  that  poor  fellow .    But  this  morning  I  thought  differ-  < 

ently.  I  will  risk  nothing  more.  I  feel  superstitious  about 
leaving  you  again  without  coming  to  some  understanding  with 
you— without  telling  you,  although  you  know  it  so  well 
already,  that  I  love  you." 

He  waits  as  if  for  an  answer,  but  no  word  passed  her  lips ; 
ehe  has  taken  up  the  end  of  a  black  ribbon  that  catches  up  a 
fold  of  her  gown  on  one  side,  and  is  drawing  it  idly  through 
her  nervous  fingers. 

"  Will  you  marry  me,  Evelyn  ?  "  asks  he  in  a  low  tone  that 
trembles  slightly. "  It  is  a  proposal  of  the  most  formal  kind, 
severe,  uncompromising.  With  the  shadow  of  the  dead  man 
still  hovering  over  them  it  has  seemed  to  him  indecorous,  im- 
possible, to  seek  for  actual  happiness,  to  look  for  pleasure.  To 
secure  her  !  that  is  all.  To  leave  her  again,  without  a  distinct 
engagement  existing  between  them  and  binding  them  to  each 
other,  had  been  beyond  him,  but  he  is  full  of  a  stern  deter- 
mination to  accept  no  delight  from  the  situation. 

He  has  not  attempted  to  go  near  her.  Eespect  for  the  dead 
man  to  whom  she  had  promised  herself  unwillingly,  in  an  evil 
hour,  keeps  back  demonstration  of  every  kind.  But  his  eyes 
are  fastened  on  her  with  so  ardent  and'honestly  fond  a  light 
in  them,  as  should  satisfy  the  heart  of  any  woman. 

"Yes.    In  a  year  ! "  says  she,  still  witfiout  lifting  her  eyes. 

"A  year!  My  darling!  what  an  eternity!  Make  it  six 
months." 

"  Lft  it.be  a  year,"  murmurs  she  tremulously. 

"  As  you  will,  of  course,"  says  be,  touched  by  the  entreaty 
in  her  tone,  and  the  tender  meaning  of  her  request.  In  the 
entreaty  did  there  not  lie.  true  surrender?  Let  him  not  grudge 
that  poor  lost  lover  anything  site  now  can  do  for  him. 

"  Thank  you  ! "  says  she  simply.  She  raises  her  head ;  their 
eyes  meet.  Instinctively  they  lean  towards  each  other,  and 
their  lips  meet  lightly,  with  a  certain  shrinking,  and  without 
passion.  A  sad  little  embrace,  a  mere  ratification  of  the  dear 
tie  that  at  last  binds  them  to  each  other. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  think  ma  wanting  in  feeling,"  flays  Stame* 


KEMORSE. 

presently.    "When  I  am  gone  It  will  give  you  an  unpleasant 
memory  of  me.      I  supjio.se  I  should  not  have  exacted  a 

promise  from  you  to-day  of  all  day  s  —when .   But  I  couldn't 

go  away  without  being-  sure  of  you.    You  aren't,"  anxiously, 
"angry  with  me?" 

"Not  angry,"  she  struggles  with  herself  for  a  moment,  and 
then  looks  up  at  him.  "  I'm  glad,"  says  she— "  I'm  glad  you 
spoke.  I  too  was  frightened.  Oh  !  if  you  had  gone  away 
again  without  a  word,  I  should  have  died"" 

She  makes  a  desperate  fight  with  her  weaker  self,  but  grief, 
shock,  joy— all  are  too  much  for  her  ;  she  bursts  into  a  storm 
of  tears. 

And  Stamer !— alas  for  all  his  resolutions ! — when  he  sees  the 
very  heart  of  him  thus  sobbing  her  little  soul  away,  when  he 
marks  the  pretty  head,  bowed  through  grief  and  weariness, 
and  so  many  conflicting  emotions  ;  when  he  sees  the  slender 
brown  hands  trying  to  hide  away  the  weeping  eyes,  he  gives 
poor  human  nature  way,  and  catching  his  little  sweetheart  in 
his  arms,  presses  her  to  his  breast  with  all  the  warmth  of  a 
pasfion  virtuously  kept  under  for  so  long. 

"Don't  cry  !  Don't— <lnn't,  Evelyn  !  There  now  !  my  love  ! 
my  delight !  Don't  be  bad  to  me."" 

He  has  taken  out  his  own  handkerchief,  and  is  mopping  her 
dolorous  lids  with  a  devotion — I  was  going  to  say  worthy  of  a 
better  cause,  but  what  cause  is  so  worthy  as  love.? 

"It  isn't  to  you  I'm  bad!"  says  she  with  a  great  self-re- 
proach, that  doesn't  prevent  her  however  from  clinging  to  him 
with  both  her  arms  ;  she  is  afraid  perhaps  that  a  wt.ern  sense  of 
duty  may  require  the  abolition  of  this  new  beloved  suitor,  and 
by  thus  encircling  him  she  feels  that  she  can  defy  duty  to 
touch  him. 

"  No.  You  are  too  good  to  me,"  caressing  the  soft  hair  that 
lies  just  beneath  his  lips,  and  gathering  up  tier  hand  and  lay- 
ing it  upon  his  heart.  "  It  is  only  that  I  can't  bear  to  see  you 
crying  in  the  hour  that  at  last— at  last  gives  you  to  me.  We 
do  belong  to  each  other  now,  don't  we? 

"  I  don't  know,"  sadly  r  "  there  is  your  mother  !  She — shft 
trill  be  angry  about  it, "Eaton." 

' '  Don't  be  unhappy  about  that.    She  is  leaving  Fen  ton." 

*' Lending  ?  For  a  time  ?  " 

"  No— for  ever.  She  may  return  of  course  now  and  then  to 
delight  us,  but  her  reign  at  Parklands  is  over.  You  know 
that  Bertram  is  going  to  marry  Marian?  I  suppose,"  with  a 
slight  smile,  "I  ought  to  put  it  the  other  way  round,  but 
Bertram  is  so  much  to  me." 

"  Yes  ;  I  lu'ard.  I  was  so  pleased.  Marian  loves  him, 
almost  " — very  sweetly  but  sadly — "as  well  as  I  love  you. 
But  perhaps  Sir  Bertram— lv>  is  staying  here,  at  all  events  — 
and  perhaps  he  may  object  to  your  marrying  me.  They  want 
a  fortune  for  you,  you  know." 

"Nonsense!  you  don't  know  Bertram — nobody  does,  I 
think,  except  uiyself  and  Marian,  lie  is  delighted  at  the 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  sSt 

thought  that  you  and  I  are  going  to  be  married.  I  suppose  * 
—he  pauses  and  laughs  a  little,  and  then  goes  on— "I 
suppose  you  know  that  the  muter  wanted  me  to  marry  Marian, 
and ft 

"  Wanted  Sir  Bertram  to  marry  nobody.  Yes;  I  knew," 
says  she,  nodding-  har  head.  "But  I  thought  at  one  time  that 
you  too,  wanted  to  marry  yourself  to  Marian." 

41  That  was  when  you  were  the  silliest  parson  alive  !  Now 
you  are  the  wisest— you  have  accepted  me  !  "  says  he  gaily. 
"  Well,  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you  was,  that  when  my  mother 
found  Marian  was  engaged  to  Bertram,  and  not  me,  she 
surged,  she  uprose  and  finally  declared  that  she  would  no 
longer  undertake  the  care  of  Park  Lands.  Whether  this  was 
meant,  or  a  mere  burst  of  disappointment,  no  one  can  tell. 
Bertram  accepted  it  as  it  was.  He  is  very  quiet,  but  very 
capable,  when  occasion  calls.  He  in  fact  accepted  her  resig- 
nation, and  though  she  has  made  several  attempts  to  rescind 
her  first  determination  he  has  quietly  ignored  them.  You 
see,  you  will  be  free  from  her.  This  "—says  he  smiling—  "  I 
put  forward  as  a  further  inducement  to  you  to  be  true  to 
me." 

"I  don't  want  an  inducement,"  says  she  earnestly. 

"  We  shan't  be  very  well  off,  Evelyn  ;  you  know  that.  You 
wen't  mind,  will  you?  " 

"I  shall  be  the  best-off  woman  in  Europe,"  says  she. 

"  Well,  we  shan't  be  worse  off  than  the  Eobsons,  at  all 
events,  and  they  seem  to  pull  through  decently  enough.  We 
are  neither  of  us  given  up  to  expensive  habits." 

"  I'm  not,"  says  she.     i:  But  you  ?  " 

"  I've  never  had  very  much  money,"  says  he  simply.  "  Six 
hundred  a  year  from  my  maternal  grandmother,  not  a  penny 
beyond,  except  owe,  wKen  Bertram  was  awfully  good  to  me. 
But  I  took  care  I  should  never  have  to  ask  him  again.  It  isn't 
fair.  Every  fellow  lives  up  to  his  income,  and  a  sudden  call 
upon  him  puts  him  in  a  hole.  I'll  give  up  the  army, 
Evelyn ! " 

"  Oh  !  I  couldn't  bear  you  to  do  that,"  says  she  ;  "  you  would 
regret  it  so.  It  would  be  too  great  a  sacrifiee." 

"  With  you  as  compensation  ?  I  think  not,"  with  a  fond 
smile.  "And  there's  that  cottage  of  the  Harcourts— not  so 
bad  a  place  and  plenty  of  rooms— and  if  you  can  put  up  with 
it '{ 

"Oh!  Eaton." 

"Well,  that's  gettled.  Six  hundred  a  year,  poor  as  it  is,  will 
keep  us  aliva,  and  I  have  interest,  I  may  be  able  to  manage 
something-  else.  At  all  events,"  giving  her  a  little  loving 
shake,  "  I'm  all  right.  I'll  never  want  For  anything,  so  long 
as  I  have  you  ! " 

At  this  moment  a  servant  opening  the  door  threw  them  into 
great  confusion. 

"  Mrs.  Vaudrey  is  in  the  drawing-room,  miss.  Her  love, 
and  may  she  see  you  at  unat.  She  said  as  'ow  it  was  very 
Important," 


2S»  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE 

Evelyn  looks  anxiously  at  Stamer. 

"  Oh*!  I  can't  go  to  the  drawing-room, "  says  she  *'If  any 
one  else  were  to  come  in,  I " 

"  Of  course.  I'm  off,"  says  Stamer  instantly.  '•  Show  Mrs. 
Vaudrey  in  here,"  to  the  servant. 

There  is  a  quick  parting-  embrace,  a  promise  to  return  in 
the  morning,  and  spring-ing-  lig-htly  from  the  window  to  the 
turf  outside,  he  disappears  just  as  the  servant  ushers  Mrs. 
Vaudrey  into  the  schoolroom. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

SUCH  an  excited  Mrs.  Vaudrey  !  With  a  bonnet  very  much 
over  the  left  ear,  and  her  hair  anyhow  !  One  lock  has 
wandered  into  her  eye,  but  she  doesn't  seem  to  heed  it.  Tit,". 
dolman  has  been  buttoned  wrongly  all  the  way  down,  and 
leaves  a  generous  droop  of  fringe  at  one  side,  with  nothing  at 
all  to  signify  on  the  other.  The  hands  she  extends  to  Evelya 
are  innocent  of  gloves. 

"Oh!  my  dear,  have  you  heard — have  you  heard?  Oh! 
my  dear  Evelyn  !  Give  "me  a  chair,  my  love,  I  have  run  all 
the  way.  Reginald  told  me— he  heard  the  will  read.  I  have 
positively  raced  here.  And  here's  the  letter,"  holding  out  a 
sealed  envelope.  "Reginald  promised  that  lawyer  man— his 
lawyer,  you  know— to  let  you  have  it  at  once  ;  so  as  Reginald 
was  called  off  as  usual  by  old  Betty  Lampson  at  the  most  in- 
convenient moment,  I  said  I'd  bring  it.  The  lawyer — his 
lawyer,  you  know— Mr.  Johnson,  would  have  brought  it  him- 
self, but  he  had  to  catch  the  last  train. " 

"But "  says  Evelyn  bewildered,  holding  the  letter  and 

staring  at  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  who  indeed  is  worthy  of  all  regard, 
taking  her  from  one  point  of  view. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  yes.  The  lawyer  man  would  have  come 
himself,  and  considering  the  importance  of  his  mission,  in  my 
opinion  he  should  have  come,  but  it  appears  he  had  some 
tremendous  case  in  town  that  necessitated  his  return.  I 
don't  wonder  you're  annoyed  about  it,  but  it  seems  he  is  to 
come  down  to  see  you  first  thing  in  the  morning." 

"But  to  see  me  for  what?  What  has  happened?"  cries 
Evelyn,  in  despair  of  ever  hearing  the  truth,  and  feeling1 
horribly  frightened.  Can  any  fresh  catastrophe  have  oc- 
curred ~: 

"My  dear,  haven't  I  told  you?  Oh,  my  poor  headl 
Reginald  said  I'd  never  be  able  to  do  it,  and  really  for  once 
I  think  he  knew  something.  Oh  !  Evelyn.  He  has  left  you 
everything." 

"He— Mr.  Vaudrey?  You  mean— oh,  no  !"  cries  the  girl 
shrinking. 

"Yes.  Everything!  How  he  loved  you  !  What  deet  de- 
votion !  He  must  have  anticipated  his  death,  I  think.  Poor, 
poor  fellow !  I  daresay  he  knew  his  heart  was  all  wrong- 
You  are  one  of  the  richest  heiresses  in  England,  Evelyn ) 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  «8j 

Every  penny  beyond  the  few  bequests  goes  to  yon,  and  there 
are  three  estates,  and " 

"But  it  is  impossible,"  says  Evelyn,  almost  falling-  into 
the  seat  next  her.  "  There  must  be  some  relations,  some " 

"  jYo  one,  it  appears ;  at  least  no  one  specially  near.  He 
seemsjo  have  been  singularly  devoid  of  relations.  Some  of 
Ihoserbld  families  die  out  like'that.  And  everything-  was  un- 
entailed. I  oug-ht  to  congratulate  you,  Evelyn,  but  I  can't 

my  dear,  I  can't,  when  I  think Oh  !  Evelyn,  what  do  vou 

think  he  has  done  for  its?  He  has  left  me,  me,  £1Q$QQ. 
Oh  !  think  of  it— it  is  riches  !  " 

Here  the  poor  woman  breaks  down,  and  bursts  into  a  passion 
Of  tears. 

Evelyn,  as  if  stunned,  sits  motionless.  Then  suddenly, 
as  if  the  real  meaning-  of  it  has  at  last  entered  into  her,  she 
goes  over  to  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  and  kneeling-  down  beside  her, 
lays  her  head  against  her  shoulder. 

" Poor,  poor  fellow  ! "  sobs  Mrs.  Vaudrey.  "Oh  !  my  dear, 
what  a  godsend  to  us !  And  do  you  see  now  he  thong-lit  it  all 
out?  It  is  to  me  he  leaves  it,  in  trust  for  the  children.  He 
loved  Reginald—but  he  knew  him  too.  He  was  well  aware 
that  if  he  left  the  money  to  Reginald  it  would  all  drift  away, 
sooner  or  later,  to  the  poor  of  the  parish.  He  knew  him  and 
loved  him,  and  was  determined  to  make  him  comfortable  in 
gpite  of  himself." 

"  What  a  heart !  "  says  Evelyn  in  a  low  tone.  Her  own 
tears  are  falling  fast. 

"  Gold,  gold,  my  dear  I  We  none  of  us  appreciated  him 
half  enough,  though  you  and  I,  Evelyn,  always  saw  the  sweet- 
ness of  his  disposition.  I  thank  God  for  that  now.  To  re- 
member that  I  had  ever  been  unjust  to  him  even  in  my 
thoughts  would  have  broken  my  heart  now." 

"  I  was  not  unjust,  but  I  might  have  been  more  loving." 

"My  dear,  I  really  don't  think  you  have  anything  to  re- 
proach yourse'f  with.  He  was  a  different  man  "from  the  day 
£:>u  accepted  him.  He  was  satisfied  with  you  in  every  way. 
is  certain  that  you  made  his  last  days  entirely  happy. 
That  he  should  leave  you  all  he  could,  is  reasonable  enough, 
because  we  could  see  how  he  adored  you ;  but  that  he  should 
think  of  us  !  " 

SJhere  is  a  long  pause,  during  which  the  two  women  cry 
sitently  and  give  tender  reverential  thoughts  to  the  dead 
man. 

"It  lifts  us  out  of  poverty,"  says  Mrs.  Vaudrey  at  length, 
in  a  low  tone.  "  No  one,"  with  a  touch  of  bitterness,  "will  be 
able  to  look  down  upon  us  now.  I  shall  be  able  to  get  Regi- 
nald a  new  evening  suit  at  once.  There  will  be  no  sneers  at 
him  in  future. 

It  is  plain  that  the  old  sore  is  rankling  still,  but  with  it  is  a 
•blessed  sense  of  relief— of  hitherto  unknown  prosperity. 

Crawford  when  making  this  generous  gift,  hardly  realized 
the  intensity  of  the  delight  it  would  afford  its  recipient*. 


BS4  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

"He  can  give  away  his  old  waistcoats  now  if  he  will,**  goes 
on  Mrs.  Vaudrev,  with  restrained  but  unmistakable  exulta- 
tion, "  I  shall  always  be  able  to  replace  them.  It  is  in  my 
power  from  this  day  forth  to  keep  decent  clothes  on  his  im- 
provident back  It's  a  kind  back,  however,  Evelyn,  isn't  it 
now  ?  " 

Good  fortune  has  made  her  lenient,  even  to  Keg-maid. 

"It  is  indeed,"  says  Evelyn  gravely.  Another  time  shfc 
might  have  smiled.  Smiles  are  beyond  her  now.  He  has  left 
her  all  I  In  life  he  had  given  his  love— the  yerv  best  of  him  ; 
in  deatk  he  had  given  her  all  that  remained !  And  she  ? 
In  word  she  had  been  true  to  him,  in  spirit 

"  Something  has  been  weighing  on  me  ever  since  I  heard 
it,  Evelyn.  It  is  that  I  can't  tfia.nk  him.  If  I  could  only  tell 
him  how  I  feel!  How  he  has  lifted  one  poor  woman  "from 
perpetual  worry  to  a  sense  of  security." 

The  poor  soul  is  more  grateful  for  her  £10,000  than  many 
another  has  been  for  twenty  times  that  sum. 

"Yes,  that  is  the  terrible  part  of  it.  1  have  so  much— so 
much  to  say  to  him,'1  says  Evelyn,  who  is  sobbing  violently  by 
this  time/  "Oh!  I  ought  not  to  take  his  money.  He  did 
not  know,  he  could  not !  And  I  should  have  told  him  ;  I  should 
have  left  it  to  himsalf  whether " 

She  stops  abruptly.  After  all,  it  is  impossible  to  explain  to 
any  one  all  that  is  in  her  heart.  One  small  grain  of  comfort 
remains  to  her.  She  had  been  true  to  him.  She  had  given 
up  Eaton.  She  had  been  willing'  to  sacrifice  her  whole  life. 
Oh  !  if  now  he  knows,  he  cannot  be  very  angry  with  her  ! 

"My  dear,  he  knew  that  you  were  the  woman  he  could 
really  love,  "says  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  who  has  providentially,  and 
quite  as  might  be  expected  of  her,  got  on  the  wrong  scent. 
"And  as  he  h'ts  left  his  money  to  you,  and  as  there  are  no 
direct  heirs,  I  consider  it  would  be  a  flying  in  the  face  of 
Providence  to  refuse  what  he  was  so  anxious  to  give  you. 
And  would  it  be  kind  either?  He  is  dead— poor,  poor  man  ! 
— and  can  make  no  protest.  Is  not  that  a  reason  why  one 
should  be  the  more  careful  to  respect  his  last  wishes?  It 
would  grieve  him,  Evelyn,  if  he  could  know  that  the  good  he 
meant  to  do  you  had  been  undone,  and  by  you  of  all  others." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  Oh!  I  hope  I  made  him  happy  while 
he  was  here." 

"No  one  who  ever  saw  him  with  you  could  doubt  that. 
What  a  gentle  smile  he  had,  Evelyn.  I  don't  believe  there 
was  ever  any  one  like  him  !  So  good  to  all— so  charitable,  99 
sympathetic  ! " 

"  "  He  was  a  saint,  I  think,"  says  Evelyn  tremulously.  "  Oh  ! 
Mrs.  Vaudrey,  I  can't  forget  that  last  evening  he  was  here — 
the  very  evening  he— he  died  !  There  was  something  in  big 
face  as  he  said  good-bye  to  me — something  as  he  looked  back 
at  me  from  the  doorway — that  goes  to  my  heart  now  as  I 
sewcmber  it.  I  feel  I  was  cruel  to  him,  that'l  should  not  have 
Perhaps— perhaps  at  that  very  moment  he  was 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  a«5 

•  His  heart  may  have  been  distressing1  him,  and  I 
saw  nethifcg— said  nothing.  I  let  him  go — to  his  lonely 
death. '-' 

There  li  a  terrible  self-reproach  in  her  tone.  She  remem- 
bers hw  glad  she  had  been  to  let  him  go.  How  she  had 
longed  for  solitude  to  dwell  on  her  lost  happiness — to  commune 
with  herseif.  She  had  indeed  forgotten  all  but  self.  There 
the  sting  lies ! 

"If  I  had  Called  him  back,"  says  she. 

"  My  dear  girl,  you  should  not  let  such  thoughts  take  hold 
of  you.  If  he  hud  come  back,  with  the  hand  of  the  Lord  thus 
heavy  on  hin\,  how  would  it  have  been?  Why  he— it  might 
have  occurred  here,  with  you.  Reginald  says  it  would  have 
been  a  shock  toe  great  for  a  child  like  you,  and  that  therefore 
Heaven  in  its  mercy  averted  it !"  This  seems  to  have  been  a 
good  deal  for  the  silent  Reginald  to  have  said.  "Believe  me, 
me,  my  dear,  all  is  for  the  best." 

" It  is  unsatisfactory  !"  says  Evelyn  sorrowfully.  "How- 
can  it  be  for  the  best  when  a  good  man  like  Mr.  Crawford  is 
suddenly  cut  oft' from  life?  He  was  charitable,  kind,  loving  ; 
he  was  no  respecter  of  persons.  The  poor  were  as  dear  in  Iris 
sight  as  the  rich.  I  don't  believe  he  was  ever  guilty  of  an 
unkindly  action.  He  was  faultless  !" 

"A  good  thing  to  bear  in  mind  of  one  who  dies  suddenly," 
says  Mrs.  Vaudrey,  with  a  curious  but  unmeant  assumption 
of 'her  husband's  manner.  "Sudden  death  is  always  fear- 
some. But  as  for  him  !  he  truly  was  ready  to  g-o  before  his 
Maker  !  He  had  no  sins  upon  his  soul  beyond  thi;  ordinary 
ones  for  which  even  the  most  righteous  of  us  must  plea'* 
guilty.  Surely  lie  is  not  suing  for  forgiveness  vainly.'' 


CHAPTER  LVL 

MRS.  VAUDREY  has  torn  herself  away.  Evelyn  has  t  au.  \** 
Kitty,  and  with  many  tears,  and  many  reproachful  outbursts, 
told  'her  of  the  news  Mrs.  Vaudrey  has  brought— and  which 
the  letter  from  Mr.  Johnson  has  confirmed. 

Having  told  her,  Evelyn  has  rushed  back  to  the  school- 
room to  finish  her  cry  privately,  leaving  Kitty  paralyzed  and 
trying  vainly  to  battle  with  the  elation  that  is  filling  her  kind- 
ly" breast. 

Evelyn,  having  regained  her  sanctuary,  has  flung-  herself 
into  a  chair  ;  she,  has  carefully  turned  the  key  in  the  old  lock, 
and  with  a  long  sigh  tells  herself  that  now  at  last  she  is  secure 
from  invasion— can  think  out  her  thoughts,  and  cry  her  ut- 
most without  fear  of  interruption. 

One  minute  suffices  to  destroy  this  illusion.  Captain  Stam- 
mer had  gone  out  by  the  window  an  hour  ago  ;  he  now  comei 
in  by  it.  He  has  cleared  the  window  sill,  and  stands  opposite 
to  her,  hatless,  breathless,  colourless. 

The  radiant  iover  of  an  hotir  ayo  is  as  sad  a  visaged  man  a$ 
Miis  moment  as  the  stoniest-hearted  o£  us  might  grieve  to  scs»t 


<86  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 

"Is  it  true,  Evelyn? "asks  he,  without  preface.  It  is  im- 
possible to  misunderstand  him.  Her  own  neart  is  so  full  of 
the  subject  that  is  troubling1  him  that  she  answers  him  at  once 
and  to  the  point. 

"  Quite— quite  true  ! "  says  she  almost  tragically. 

"  I  would  to  heaven  it  wasn't,"  says  the  young-  man  pas- 
sionately. "  Why  couldn't  he  have  left  his  money  to  hospit- 
als, to  homes,  to  Dr.  Barnado— to  anii  one  but  you  ?  An  hour 
ago  I  was  the  happiest  man  alive.  Now  !  It  changes  every- 
thing1. You  are  one  of  the  richest  g-irls  in  England,  whilst  I" — 

"  Whilst  you  are  one  of  the  poorest !  No,  no,  Eaton,  you 
cannot  make  yourself  a  girl,  even  to  indulge  your  morbid 
grief  ;  "  she  laughs  rather  uncertainly.  It  is  a  laugh  very 
much  akin  to  tears.  "  What  is  it  that  is  the  matter  with 
you?  "asks  she,  going  up  to  him,  and  laying  a  gentle  per- 
suasive hand  upon  his  arm,  that  sets  his  blood  aflame,  ana  is 
seized  instantly,  "  Do  you— can  I— forget  that  this  morning 
you  asked  in  marriage  the  hand  of  the  poorest  girl  in  England  r' 

"Oh,  as  for  that,"  says  he  miserably,  "I  wish  we  stood  as 
we  did  this  morning.  You  are  no  longer  the  old  Evelyn, 
whom  I " 

"Don't  talk  to  me  like  that,  Eaton,"  says  she  steadily,  "un- 
less you  wish  to  break  my  heart.  If  you' feel  a  change,  it  is 
you  who  have  created  it,  not  I.  What  has  happened  since  this 
morning  that  should  change  anything  between  you  and  I  ? 
What  has  money  got  to  do  with  us  ?  This  morning  you 
would  have  married  me  when  I  was  a  beggar  maid  ;  am  I  a 

different  girl  now— because Oh,  Eaton  !  don't  be  unkind 

tome." 

"I  only  mean  to  be  kind,"  says  he  gloomily,  still  holding1 
oa,  however,  like  grim  death  to  the  little  hand.  "  It  seems 
unfair  to  take  advantage  of " 

"Oh!  if  you  go  on  talking  to  me  like  that,  I  shall  die," 
says  Miss  D'Arcy,  with  a  woeful  shake  of  her  head  and  an 
evident  determination  to  be  as  good  as  her  word.  A  sob 
escapes  her  ;  she  makes  a  frantic  effort  to  reach  her  pocket 
with  her  disengaged  hand,  but  as  that  useful  receptacle  has 
been  of  late  years  carefully  placed  by  the  makers  of  gowns 
where  no  one  can  possibly  get  at  it,  she  is  constrained  to  give 
up  the  search  for  the  handkerchief,  and  bury  her  face  ou 
Eaton's  breast  instead. 

"  Kind,'1  cries  she  from  this  comfortable  stronghold,  "what 
do  you  call  kind  ?"  she  speaks  rather  spasmodically,  one  quarter 
because  she  is  crying,  and  the  other  three  because  Stamer,  in 
spite  of  all  his  moody  protests,  has  wound  his  arms  so  tightly 
round  her  that  her  lungs  are  justly  resentful  of  this  most  unfair 
play. 

"  Darling  heart !    You  know  what  I  mean." 

"I  don't  indeed,  and  I'm  glad  I  don't.  I  never  heard  any- 
thing so  cruel  in  all  my  life !"  This  naive  denial  and 
acknowledgement  both  in'the  same  breath  goes  without  com- 
ment. "  Oa !  I've  such  a  headache,"  cries  she  with  instinctive 


A  LIFE'S  REMORSE.  287 

wisdom.  "I've  been  crying-  all  day  ;  if  you  make  me  cry 
any  more  I  shall  be  ill.  Enron,  say  we  are  just  the  same  to 
oach  oi:her  that  we  v,  -you  were  here — an  hour  ago." 

"So MM  dav  3'ou'll  reproach  me." 

"  When  that  day  comes,  you  can  reproach  me  too;  so  we 
shall  b  >  quits.  >>v/  we  are  engaged  to  each  other." 

"  \Vdl-yes."  says  he,  trying  to  feel  reluctant,  but  with  a 
very  madness  of  joy  at  his  heart. 

"Then  why  donrt  you  kiss  me?  "  says  Miss  D'Arcy  sternly. 

E>  kisses  her. 

"  You  must  read  his  lawyer's  letter,"  says  she ;  "  it  proves 
he  has  no  near  relations — no  one  at  all  who  could  feel  aggrieved. 
And  i  am  sure  he  wished  me  to  have — to  be  his  heiress.  There 
is  only  one  distant  cousin  of  his,  a  Mr.  Warren,  and  he  is  an 
old  bachelor,  and  enormously  wealthy.  Of  course  he  might 

have  left  it  to  hospitals,  as  you  said,  but "  she  pauses  and 

looks  eaniosrly  at  him.  "We  can  do  a  great  deal  of  good  in. 
this  parish,  can't  we,  Eaton?" 

"Yes.  darling,"  slowly  and  with  a  quick  sigh.  It  seems 
hard  to  him  that  he  should  be  enriched  by  Crawford  ;  yet  to 
give  her  up  would  be  harder  still.  Divining  his  thought,  she 
comforts  him  by  slipping  an  arm  around  his  neck  and  press- 
Ing  her  soft  cheek  to  his. 

"Eaton,"  says  she  presently,  a  little  shyly,  yet  a  little  mali- 
ciously too,  and  with  a  most  natural  sense  of  triumph,  "your 
mother  will  not  object  to  me  now  I " 
'No,"  with  a  frown. 
'  Does  she  know  ?  ** 
'Yes." 

'What  did  she  say?" 

1  She  asked  me  if  I  was  going  down  to  see  yon,  and  desired 
to  give  you  her  love. " 

At  this,  after  a  struggle,  they  both  laugh— in  a  subdued 
fashion  truly,  but  until  they  shake  again. 

"Nevermind,"  says  Evelyn.  "Give  her  mine  in  return. 
She  is  your  mother  and  therefore  sacred.  And  besides,  you 
tell  me  she  is  going  away." 

"  That  is  quite  settled.  Bertram,  who  is  always  so  indolent, 
has  been  extraordinary  firm  about  that." 

"  I  am  so  glad  Marian  is  to  be  happy  at  last.  You  knew — 
did  you?— that  she  was  always  in  love  with  him.  Oh  !  that' 9 
"a  secret — I  shouldn't  have  said  that?" 

"And why  not?  Do  you  mean  to  say  Mrs.  Stamer,  that 
you  are  going  to  begin  by  having  secrets  from  your  hus- 
band ?  " 

Here  they  laugh  again. 

"  Is  Sir  Bertram  as  happy  as  Marian?  " 

"Yes,  I  think  so.    I'm  sure  of  it.     You  never  saw  a  fellow 
so  radiant.     It  has  quite  woke  him  up.     But  after  all  "— 
pressing  her  to  his  heart  again — "he  could  never,  ««»<>r  be^ 
tenth  part  as  happy  as  I  am." 
•'  Oh  I  or  as  1 1 "  rejoins  she  sweetly. 


8&  A  LIFE'S  REMORSE. 


Eaton,  reaching-  home,  makes  his  way  straight,  not  to  hit 
toother,  but  to  the  library,  where  he  is  sure  to  find  Sir  Bertram 
at  this  hour,  and  who  receives  both  him  and  his  good  tidings 
tvith  a  most  satisfactory  warmth.  Batty,  who  is  present,  joins 
in  the  general  congratulations. 

"So  glad,  old  fellow.  I  always  knew  you  were  the  man, 
even  when  the  engagement  with  poor  Crawford  was  on." 

"Crawford  wouldn't  have  suited  her,"  says  Sir  Bertram. 
*'  Kind  sort,  don't  you  know,  but  -  er-^-queer,  don't  you 
think?" 

"  He  has  been  very  generous,"  says  Eaton  gravely.  "He 
Jnust  have  been  most  honest  in  his  affection  for  her." 

"  He  was  generous  all  through.  You  heard  what  he  has 
done  for  the  Vaudreys  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  By  Jove  !  a  lift  for  them  !  '  says  Batty. 

*'I  think  Crawford  was  one  of  the  strangest  men  I  ever 
met,  "says  Sir  Bertram,  flinging  the  end  of  his  cigarette  into 
the  fire,  after  lighting  a  fresn  one.  "  1  dont  think  he  was  as 
old  as  he  looked,  and  yet  -  " 

"  Heart  disease  ages  people,"  says  Eaton.  "I  daresay  it 
vas  that  that  gave  him  that  strained  expression  in  the  eyes." 

"Look  here,*'  says  Mr.  Blount,  leaning  forward,  and  speak  ing 
"With  a  touch  of  nervousness  very  foreign  to  his  usual  delight- 
ful self-possession.  "I've  had  the  oddest  thought  of  late  that 
ever  -  " 

"  My  good  fellow,  tell  us  something  fresh  !  We  all  know  the 
sort  of  thought  to  be  expected  from  you.  Sanity  is  n»t  your 
strongest  point." 

"Well,  but,  bar  chaff  I  look  here,  yon  know,"  say*  Batty 
earnestly  ;  "I've  never  spoken  of  it  before  to  any  one,  but  if 
either  01  you  had  seen  his  face  that  day  —  the  day  when  Mrs. 
D'Arcy  told  him  that  Evelyn's  name  was  Darling,  and  that 
her  father  had  been  murdered  —  you  wouldn't  have  forgotten 
itinahurrv." 

"Why  so?" 

14  It  was  horrid,  1  can  tell  you  !  Like  a  devil  1  a  tortured 
devil  !  It  haunts  me,  by  Jove  !  " 

"Well,  go  on,  can't  you?  You  are  evidently  bursting  to 
impart  something  better  worth  hearing  than  that.  Crawford 
was  never  at  any  time  a  beauty." 

"I  can't  get  it  out  of  my  mind,"  says  Batty,  hesitating-, 
and  growing  rather  pale.  "It  has  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps 
he  knew  something  of  tbat  murder  —  that  perhaps  he  was  tho 
murderer  !  " 

"Oh  !  go  the  deuce  !  "  says  Sir  Bertram,  giving  way  to 
unkindly  mirth. 

"Bad  advice,  Bertram  !**  says  Eaton,  with  suspicious 
gravity.  "  Better,"  turning  to  Batty,  "go  to  bed,  my  good 
ooy,  and  have  your  head  shaved,  for  you  are  plainly  on  tin 
verge  of  brain  fever  !  "—THE  END. 


The  Windsor   12mos. 


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Admirable  Lady  Biddy  Fane  Barrett 
Adventures  by  Land  and  Sea  Arthur 
jEsop's  Fables 

Alexander  the  Great    Jacob  Abbott 

All  Aboard  (Sequel  to  "Boat  Club") 

Oliver  Optic 

AH  Along  the  River  Miss  Braddon 
Allan  Quatermain  H.  Rider  Haggard 
AH  Sorts  and  Conditions  of  Men 

Besant  and  Kice 
AlOrtC  Marion  Harland 

Among-  Malay  Pirates     G.  A.  Henty 
Anderson's  Fairy  Tales 
Audree  de  Taverney  Dumas 

Anna  Karenine  Count  Tolstoi 

April's  Lady  "The  Duchess" 

Arabian  Nights'  Entertainment 
Ardath  Marie  Corelli 

Armorel  of  Lyonesse  Walter  Besant 
At  Heart  a  Rake  Florence  Marryat 
At  the  World's  Mercy  Warden 

A«nt  Diana  Rosa  N.  Carey 

Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast -Table, 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 
Averil  Rosa  Nouchette  Carey 

Babylon  *  Grant  Allen 

Barbara  Heathcote's  Trial  R.  Carey 
Bay  Path  J.  G.  Holland 

Belle  Of  Lynn  C.  M.  Braeme 

Beside  the  Bonnie  Brier  Bush  Maciaren 
Between  Two  Loves  C.  M.  Braeme 
Beulah  Augusta  J.  Evans 

Beyond  Pardon  C.  M.  Braeme 

Beyond  the  City  A.  Conan  Doyle 

Black  Beauty  Anna  Sewell 

Black  Rock  Ralph  Connor 

Black  Tulip,  The  Alexander  Dumas 
Blind  Fate  Mrs.  Alexander 

Blithedale  Romance     N.  Hawthorne 

Eoat  Club,  The  Oliver  Optic 

ondrren,  The  HallCaine 

Bonnie  Prince  Charlie  G.  A.  Henty 
Born  Coquette  "  The  Duchess  " 

Boy  Knight,  The  G.  A.  Henty 

Bravest  of  the  Brave  G.  A.  Henty 
Broken  Links  Mrs.  Alexander 

Broken  Wedding  Ring  C.  M.  Braeme 
Bryant's  Poems 

By  England's  Aid  G.  A.  Henty 

By  Pike  and  Dyke  G.  A.  Henty 

By  Sheer  Pluck  G.  A.  Henty 

Capt.  Bayley's  Heir  G.  A.  Henty 

Cast  Up  by  the  Sea  SirS.  W.  Baker 
Catherine  de  Medici  Honore  de  Balzac 
Change  Of  Air,  A  Anthony  Hope 


Chevalier  de  Mason  Rouge,  The 

Alexander  Duma* 
ChiCOt  the  Jester    Alexander  Dumas 

Children  of  the  Abbey,  The  Roche 
Child's  History  of  England  Dickens 

Chouans,  The  Honore  de  Balzae 

Christie  Johnstone         Charles  Reade 

Claribel's  Love  Story   c.  M.  Braeme 

Clique  Of  Gold,  The     Emile  Gaboriau 

Clyffards  of  Clyffe,  The  James  Payn 
Confessions   of   an    English   Opium 
Eater  Thomas  Ue  Quincy 

Conscript,  The         Alexander  i 
Consequences  Egerton  < 

Cornet  of  Horse  G.  A.  Henty 

Conspirators,  The  Alexander  Dumas 
Countess  de  Charny  Alex.  Dumas 
Count  of  Monte  Cristo,  The  Tart  n 

(See  Edmund  Dantes)  Dumas 

Cousin  Betty  Honorfi  de  Balaaa 

Cousin  Harry  Mrs. 

Crooked  Path  Mrs.  Alexander 

Cruise  of  the  Cachalot   F.  T.  Buiien 
Cyrano  de  Bergerac         E.  R<. 
Daughter  of  Heth         William  Biac* 

David  Copperfield  Charles  Dickens 
Dawn  H.  Rider  II. 

Deemster,  The  Han 

Deerslayer,  The  J.  Fenimore  Cooper 
Deldee,  the  Ward.oKWarringham 

Florence  V. 

Diana  Carew  Mrs.  Fon 

Diana  of  the  Crossways  G.  Meredith 
Dick's  Sweetheart  "The  DU 

Doctor  Cupid  Rhoda  Broughton 

Dolly  Dialogues,  The  Anthony  Hope 

Donald  Ross  of  Heimra  Wrn.  Black 
Donovan  Edna  Lyall 

Dora  Deane  Mary  J.  Holmes 

Dora  Tliorne  Charlotte  M.  Braeme 
Doris'  Fortune  Florence  Warden 
Dream  Life  ik  Marvel 

DucheSS,  The  "The  Duchess" 

Duke's  Secret,  The  c.  M.  Braeme 
Earl's  Atonement,  The  C.M.  Braeme 

East  Lynne  Mrs.  Henry  Wood 

Edmond  Dantes  (Part  I.  of  Count  of 

Monte  Cristo)        Alexander  Dumas 

Elizabeth  and  Her  German  Garden 
Emerson's  Essays    (First  and  Second 

Series) 

English  OrphailS        M»ry  3.  Holmes 
Englishwoman's  Love- Letters,  An 
Essays  of  Elia,  Tne     Charles  Lamb 
Esther  _    BosaN.  Carey 

Eugenie  Grandct     noaorg  do  BaJ*a« 


THE  WINDSOR  12MOS — Continued. 


Facin?  Death  <*.  A.  Henty 

Facing  the  Flag  „*?*£  r?rne 

Fair  Jewess,  A  B.  L.  Farjeon 

Family  Secrets  Author  of    Pique 


Fanchoa  the  Cricket 
Father  and  Daughter 
Favorite  Poems 
Fiery  Ordeal,  A     , 
Final  Reckoning,  A 
Firm  of  Girdlestone 
File  No.  113 
First  Violin,  The 


George 

F.  Bremer 

C.  M.  Braeme 
G.  A.  Henty 
A.  C.  Doyle 
Emile  Gaboriau 
Jessie  Fothergill 


FOf  Another's  Sin  C.  M.  Braeme 

Forging  the  Fetters  Mrs.  Alexander 
For  Name  and  Fame  G-  A.  Henty 
Fortunes  of  Nigel,  The  Sir  W.  Scott 
Forty  Five  Guardsmen  Dumas 

French  Revolution  Thomas  Carlyle 
Friends,  Though  Divided  G.  A.  Henty 
Frivolous  Cupid  Anthony  Hope 

From  Out  the  GlOOm  C.  M.  Braeme 
From  the  Earth  to  the  Moon  Verne 
Frontiersmen,  The  Gustave  Aimard 
Frozen  Pirate,  The  W.  Clark  Russell 
Goethe's  Faust 

Cold  Elsie  „  E.  Marhtt 

Golden  Heart,  A  C.  M.  Braeme 

Grandfather's  Chair  N.  Hawthorne 
Greatest  Thing  in  the  World,  The 

Prof.  Henry  Drummond 

Grimm's  Fairy  Tales 
CuiWeroy  w  _      OoWa 

Gulliver's  Travels  Dean  Swift 

Guy  bannering  Sir  Waiter  Scott 
Handy  Andy  Samuel  Lover 

Han  of  Iceland 


Victor  Hugo 
Edna  Lyall 
Charles  Lever 
Jules  Verne 


Hardy  Norseman,  A 
Harry  Lorrequer 
Hector  Servadac 

Heir  Of  Linne,  The  Eobert  Buchanan 
HeriOt'S  Choice  Rosa  N.  Carey 

Her  Martyrdom  Charlotte  M.  Braeme 
Her  Only  Sin  Charlotte  M.  Braeme 
Hiawatha  Henry  W.  Longfellow 

Homestead  on  the  Hillside  Holmes 
Hon.  Mrs.  Vereker  "  The  Duchess  " 
House  of  the  Seven  Gables,  The 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne 
House  Of  the  Wolf,  The  Weyman 
House  on  the  Marsh,  The ^ harden 
Huncf.back  of  Notre  Dame,  The  Hugo 
I  have  Lived  and  Loved  Forrester 
Imitation  of  Christ,  Of  the  A'Kempis 

Inez  Augusta  J.  Evans 

ndiana  George  Sand 

!n  Freedom's  Cause  ».  A.  Henty 
In  His  Steps  Charles  M.  Sheldon 

n  the  Golden  Days  Edna  Lyail 
n  the  Heart  of  the  Storm  M.  Gray 
n  the  Reign  of  Terror  G.  A.  Henty 
n  Times  of  Peril  G.  A.  Henty 

Sland,  The  Eichard  Whiteing 

vanhOC  Sir  Walter  Scott 

ack  Archer  J  G.  A.  Henty 

Eyre  /  Charlotte  Bronte 


Jealousy  George  3an<J 

Jet;  Her  Face  or  Her  Fortune 

Mrs.  Annie  Edwards 

John  Halifax,  Gentleman        Muiock 

Joseph  BalsamO  Alexander  Dumas 

Josephine  Jacob  Abbott 

Julius  Cssar  Jacob  Abbott 

Kenilworth  Sir  Walter  Scott 

Kept  for  the  Master's  Use  Havergai 

Kidnapped  Robert  L.  Stevensoa 

King  Solomon's  Mines  Haggard 
King's  Stratagem,  The  Weyman 
Kith  and  Kin  Jessie  Fothergill 

Knight  Errant  Edna  Lyall 

"La Bella"  and  Others          Castle 
Lady  Audley's  Secret    Miss  Braddoa 
Lady  Branksmere      "  The  Dutchess 
Lady  Button's  Ward      c.  M.  Braemo 

Lamplighter,  The  Maria  S.  Cummins 
Last  Days  Of  Pompeii,  Bulwer-Lytton 
Last«Essays  of  ElFa,  The  Chas  Lamb 
Last  of  the  Mohicans,  The  Cooper 
Last  Tenant,  The  B.  L.  Farjeon 
Lena  Rivers  Mary  J.  Holmea 

Life's  Remorse,  A  "The  Duchess" 
Light  that  Failed,  The  Kipling 

Lion  of  St.  Mark,  The  G.  A.  Henty 
Lion  of  the  North,  The  G.  A.  Henty 
Little  Irish  Girl,  A  "The  Duchess " 
Little  Rebel,  A  \  „  "The  Duchess'- 
Lone  Ranch,  The  Capt.  Mayne  Eeid 
Longfellows  Poems 
Lord  Lynne's  Choice  C.  M.  Braeme 
Lorna  Doone  R.  D.  Blackmore 

Lost  Heir,  The  G.  A.  Henty 

Lost  Sir  Massingberd  James  Payn 
Louise  de  la  Valliere  Alex.  Dumas 
Love  and  Liberty  Alexander  Durnas 
Lover  or  Friend  Rosa  N.  Carey 

LucilC  Owen  Meredith 

Macaria  Augusta  J.  Evans 

Madcap  Violet  William  Black 

Maggie  Miller  Mary  J.  Holmes 

Man  in  Black,  The  s.  J.  Weyman 
Man  in  the  Iron  Mask  Alex.  Dumas 
Margaret  Maitland  Mrs.  OUphant 
Marguerite  de  Valois  Alex.  Dumas 
Marie  Antoinette  Jacob  Abbott 

Marriage  at  Sea,  A  w.  c.  Russell 
Married  at  Last  Annie  Thomas 

Martha,  the  Parson's  Daughter 

W.  Heimburg 

Marvel  "The  Duchess" 

Mary,  Queen  of  Scots  Jacob  Abbott 
Mary  St.  John  Rosa  N.  Carey 

Master  of  Ettersberg  E.  Werner 
Master  Rpckafeller's  Voyage  Russell 
Meadow  Brook  Mary  J.  Holmes 

Memoirs  of  a  Physician  Alex.  Dumas 
Merle's  Crusade  Rosa  N.  Carey 

Merry  Men,  The  R-  L.  Stevenson 
Micah  Clarke  A.  Conan  Doyle 

Michael  StrogOff  Jules  Verne 

Mine  Own  People  Rudyard  Kipling 
Modern  Circe,  A  "  Tbe  Duchess  * 


CCONTINU&D.) 


THE   WINDSOR   12MOS.— Continued. 


Miseries  of  Paris,  The  (Part  II  of 
Mysteries  of  Paris)         Eugene  Sue 
Molly  Bawn  "The  Duchess" 

Fiona's  Choice  Mrs.  Alexander 

Monk  Of  Cruta,  A  E.  P.  Oppenheim 
Morning  Thoughts  F.  K.Havergal 
Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne 
e  Marion  Harland 

Stories      Rudyard  Kipling 

Fly  Danish  Sweetheart  v>".  c.  Russell 

Fiy  Hero  Mrs.  Forrester 

hysterics  of  Paris,  The    (Part  I.) 

Miseries  of  Paris)     Eugene  Sue 

Mystery  of  Mrs,  Blencarrow 

Mrs.  Oliphant 

Nellie's  Memories  Rosa  N.  Carey 
New  Arabian  Nights  R.L.  Stevenson 
Not  Like  Other  Girls  Rosa  N.  Carey 
Not  Wisely  But  Too  Well  Broughton 
Now  or  Never  Oliver  Optic 

Old  Curiosity  Shop  Dickens 

Old  House  at  Sandwich  Hatton 

Oid  Mam'selle's  Secret  Mariitt 

Old  Mortality  Sir  Walter  Scott 

Oliver  Twist  Charles  Dickens 

One  Life,  One  Love        Miss  Braddon 

One  of  the  28th  G.  A.  Henty 

Only  the  Governess  Rosa  N.  Carey 
Orange  and  Green  G.  A.  Henty 

Other  Man's  Wife,  The  J.  s.  Winter 
Our  Bessie  Rosa  N.  Carey 

Out  of  the  Jaws  of  Death  Barrett 
Out  on  the  Pampas  G.  A.  Henty 
Owl's.  Nest,  The  E.  Mariitt 

Pathfinder.  The  J.  Fenimore  Cooper 
Pau!  and  Virginia  B.  de  Saint  Pierre 
Pe?  Woffington  Charles  Reade 

FfcYe  Gor;.;l  Honore  de  Balzac 

Perils  by  Sea  and  Land  T.  s.  Arthur 
Phantom  Rickshaw  Kipling 

Phra  the  Phoenician,  The  Wonderful 

Adventures  Of      Retold  by  Edwin 

Lester  Arnold 

Pilgrim's  Progress  John  Bunyan 
Pilot,  The  J.  Fenimore  Cooper 

Pioneers,  The       J.  Fenimore  Cooper 

Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills  Kipling 
Pleasures  of  Life,  The  Sir  Lubbock 
Plutarch's  Lives 

Poe's  Tales  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

Poor  and  Proud  Oliver  Optic 

Praific,  The  J-  Fenimore  Cooper 
Price  He  Paid,  The  E.  Werner 

Prince  Charlie's  Daughter  Braeme 
Prince  of  the  House  of  David 

Rev.  ,1.  II.  Ingraham 
Prjnce  OttO  Robert  L.  Stevenson 

Princess  of  the  Moor  Mariitt 

Prisoners  and  Captives  Merrtmon 
Prue  and  !  George  William  Curtis 
Put  Asunder  Charlotte  M.  Braeme 
Queeehy  Elizabeth  Wetherell 

Queenie'S  Whim  Rosa  N.  Carey 

Quecu'jk  SecKlace,  The  Alex.  Dumas 


Ralph  Raymond's  Heir  H.  Aiger,  jp. 
Red  Rover,  The  J.  Fenimore  Cooper 
Regent's  Daughter,  The  Dumas 
Repented  at  Leisure  C.  ii.  Bruemo 
Reproach  of  Annesley  M.  Gray 
Reveries  of  a  Bachelor  n<  Marvi  i 
Rienzi  Sir  E.  Bulwer-Io 

Rifle  Rangers,  The      Capt.  M.  Reid 
Robert  Ord's  Atonement  R • -V 
Robinson  Crusoe  i»an; 

Rogue's  Life,  A  Wiiki, 

Romance  of  a  Poor  Young  Man 

octave  Fenillet 

Romance  of  Two  World's,  A  Con-iu 

Romola  George  Eliot 

Rory.  O'More  Samuel  Lover 

Ruffino  Ouida 

Russian  Gypsy,  The  Alex.  Dumas 
Saddle  and  Sabre  Hawley  Smart 
Samantha  at  Saratoga 

Josiah  Allen's  Wife 
Sartor  Resartus          Thomas  Carlyle 

Scalp  Hunter's,  The  Capt.  M.  Reid 
Scarlet  Letter,  The  Nat.  Hawthorne 

Scottish  Chief's,  The    Miss  J.  Porter 

Search  for  Basil  Lyndhurst 

Rosa  Nouchette  Carey 
Second  Thoughts  Rlioda  Bronghtoa 
Second  Wife,  The  E.  Mariitt 

Self-Sacrifice  Mrs.  Oliphaut 

Sesame  and  Lilies          John  ; 
Shadow  of  a  Crime  Hall  Caine- 

Shadow  Of  a  Sin  C.  M.  Braeme 

She  H.  Rider  H 

She  Tel!  in  Love  with  Her  Husband 

She's  All  the  World  to  Me   i-i 

Sign  of  the  Four,  The      A.  c.  Dojie 

Silence  of  Deaa  Martian:!,  The 

Maxwell  Gray 

Singularly  Deluded  Sarah  Grand 
Six  Years  Later  Alexander  Dumas 

Sketch  Book,  The  w.  Irving 

Snare  of  the  Fowler,  The 

Mrs.  Alexander 

Son  of  Hagar,  A  Hai 

Son  Of  PorthOS,  The  Alex.  Dumaa 
Sons  Of  Belial  William  Wesiall 

Soul  of  Pierre,  The     c,. 

Spy,  The  J.  Fenimore 

St.  Ann's  W.  E.  Xorria 

Stepping  Heavenward   Mrs.  Prentisa 
St.  George  for  England    G.  A.  Henty 
Stickit  Minister,  The   s.  u.  crwkett 
St.  Katherine's  by  the  Tower  ' 
Story  of  an  African  Farm,  The 

Olive  Schrelner 

Strange  Elopement,  A  \v  <'•  Russeii 
Study  in  Scarlet,  A  A.  Conan  Doyle 
Struggle  for  a  Ring,  A  Braemo 
Sturdy  and  Strong  G.  A.  iieuty 
Sunshine  and  Roses  C.  M.  Rraeiua- 
Suspense  Henry  Seton  Merrlman 
Swiss  Family  Robinson  J.  R.  w.vs* 
Tempest  and  Sunshine  M.  J.  Hoiinea 


(CONTINUED.) 


THE  WINDSOR   12MOS.— Continued. 


Tales  from  Shakespeare 

Charles  and  Mary  Lamb 
Ten  Nights  in  a  Bar  Room  Arthur 
Terrible  Temptation,  A  c.  Reade 
Thatideus  of  Warsaw  MIPS  j.  Porter 

Thelma  Marie  Corelli 

Third  Volume,  The  Fergus  Hume 
This  Wicked  World  Mrs.  Cameron 
Thorns  and  Orange  Blossoms 

Charlotte  M.  Braeme 

Three  Guardsmen,  The  A.  Dumas 
Through  the  Fray  G.  A.  Henty, 

Thrown  on  the  World  C.  M.  Braeme 
Toilers  of  the  Sea,  The  v.  Hugo 
Tom  Brown  at  Oxford  T.  Hughes 
Tom  Brown's  School  Days  Hughes 

Tom  Jones  Henry  Fielding 

Toar  of  the  World  in  Eighty  Days 

Jules  Verne 

Treasure  Island  R.  L.  Stevenson 
True  Magdalen,  A  C.  M.  Braeme 
True  to  the  Old  Flag  G.  A.  Henty 
Try  Again  Oliver  Optic 

Twenty   Thousand   Leagues    Under 

the  Sea  Jules  Verne 

Twenty  Years  After       Alex.  Dumas 

Twice  Told  Tales          N.  Hawthorne 

Two  Admirals,  The  J.  F.  Cooper 
Two  Years  Before  the  Mast 

K.  H.  Dana,  Jr. 
Uncle  Max  Rosa  N.  Carey 

Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  H.  B.  Stowe 
Under  a  Shadow  C.  M.  Braeme 

Under-Currents  "The  Duchess" 
Under  Drake's  Flag  G.  A.  Henty 
Under  Two  Flags  Ouida 

Utopia  Sir  Thomas  More 

Vagrant  Wife,  A      Florence  "Warden 


Vanity  Fair  "VV.  M.  Thackeray 

Vendetta  Marie  Corelli 

Vicar  of  Wakefield,  The  Goldsmith 
VicoiBte  de  Bragelonne  Dumas 

Vivian,  The  Beauty  Mrs.  Edwavda 
Water  Witch,  The  •'.  F.  > 

Waverley  Sir  Walter  Scott 

Weaker  than  a  Woman  Braeme 
Wee  Wifie  Hosa  N.Carey 

We  TWO  KduaLyall 

What  Cold  Cannot  Buy 

Mrs.  Alexander 

When  a  Man's  Single  •'.  M.  name 
Which  Loved  Him  Best?  C. M.  Braeme 
White  Company,  The  A.  c.  Doyle 
Wjde,  Wide  World,  The  K.  Wethereii 
Widow  Lercuge,  The  K.  Qaborian 
Wife  in  Name  Only  c.  M.  Braeme 
Willy  Reilly  William  Cnrleton 

Wing  and  Wing  J.  F.  Cooper 

Witch's  Head,  The     H.  K.  i; 
With  Clive  in  India         G.  A.  iit-uty 
With  Lee  in  Virginia       G.  A. 
With  Wolfe  in  Canada     G.  A.  iieut.v 
Woman  in  White,  The       w.  Collins 
Woman's  Face,  A  F.  Warden 

Woman's  Heart,  A      Mrs.  Alexander 

Woman's  Temptation,  A  Braeme 
Woman's  Thoughts  About  Women, 

A  Miss 

Woman's  War,  A  C.  M.  Bracrne 

Won  by  Waiting  Edna  Lyall 

Wooed  and  Married  R-  N.  Carey 
Wooing  O't,  The  Mrs.  Alexander 
Wormwood  Marie  Corelli 

Young  Carthaginian  G.  A.  n«-nty 
Young  Colonists,  The  G.  A,  Henty 
Young  Midshipman  G.  A.  Henty 


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